Limbocide
by ProjectXii1
Summary: Inspired by and slightly involving Paranoia Agent. Four people awaken in seperate cells after ending their lives minutes before, and must talk to find out the connection between them. UPDATED AND REVISED
1. A World of Grey

**Limbocide**

A World of Grey

I want to die.

The words echo through my head, even as I pull the trigger. The gunshot; metal bar hitting detonator, the soft 'click' of the gun powder igniting, and then the explosion that follows. My ears ring. Something that feels like a mach truck carrying a load of titanium hits my temple. It strikes bone.

It's impossible to describe the sound of a bullet burrowing into your brain, suffice to say that it resembles a gumboot in mud. A sort of... squelching, sucking sound, littered with the tiniest clinks of bones fragments following in its wake. I'm falling towards the floor, pushed over from the force of the blow. Falling.

But this does not affect the path of the bullet. It exits my skull on the other side, a little higher then the temple, and disappears into the opposing wall. A spray of blood, brain and bone follows it, decorating the wallpaper I swore I'd redo many times during the past year.

I'm still falling, but things are darker now. Getting hard to think, vision getting hazy. The floor finally rushes to meet me, and I greet it like a lover long lost. Though the impact makes a considerable portion of matter spray from the wound, I don't seem to mind. In fact, nothing matters anymore. It's done. I'm free. I'm going to a better place... one without... problems... where I... can be... ...

------

I'm lying on the floor. I don't feel any pain. For awhile, I just want to stay here; peaceful, almost serene. But realisation soon begins to dawn. What's going on? Am I alive? Didn't I just shoot myself at point blank range? There's no way I could have survived that... dear god, could they possibly have found me lying in a pool of my own blood and been heartless enough to bring me back? _What is going on?_

I open my eyes. I'm staring at a white ceiling. And I'm not talking beige white, or cream white, or three-day-old-mayo white. This is super white, Jesus-rising-to-the-heavens-shining white. In the bright florescent-like lighting, I almost need to shield my eyes. But I don't.

To my left and right, I can see that the walls are the same as the ceiling. White. So very white. The whole room looks so clean and sterile I wonder if perhaps they've put me in a special section of a medical ward. But raising my hand to my head reveals no gaping wounds. In fact, my whole body feels... fine. No hint that I had an injury of any kind. It's as if it never happened.

Sitting up, I notice that I'm dressed only in some plain white underwear. I think I should feel cold in them, but in truth the air is quite temperate. Comfortable even. I get up and begin to move around the room. It's completely bare. A big, white, sterile box. I'm all alone. Trapped.

What is going on? How do I get out? There's no door... no door anywhere!! There's only...

... a window. I'm almost positive that it wasn't there a second ago. It's a small window, cut into the wall about eye level, and just big enough for me to peer through. There're bars blocking it, but I can still see outside pretty clearly. Beyond the window is a corridor, spanning so far either side I can't see the ends. The roof is the same height as my cell.

My cell... that's what it is, I've decided. Definitely a cell, and I am the prisoner. But maybe I'm not the only one?

The corridor is lined with windows similar to mine. Same height. Same bars. Maybe there are people in all of them? People who know what's going on. I have no choice but to give it a shot.

"Hello?" I call. "Is anybody there?"

There's no answer.

"Hellllloooo? Somebody?" I yell. "Is anybody out there? Please?"

Though I'm yelling loudly, there's no echo. My words seem to be consumed by the silence the moment they're free of my mouth. There's a lump forming in the back of my throat, and my tongue is beginning to feel dry.

"Anyone...?" I croak. "Please..."

Finally I hear a scuffle, and something that sounds like a snort.

"Yeah, I'm here," a deep, gruff voice says. "Don't know where the bloody hell 'here' is, but I'm here?"

"Where?" I call. "I can't see you."

"It's hard to hear in this place, but I think I'm in the room beside you."

The cell beside me. Someone else is alive. Is his cell the same? Is there anyone else?

"Hello? Somebody there?"

That's not my voice. It's a new one; higher, more melodic. A woman!

"Yes," I call. "We're here. Which cell are you in?"

A second later my question is answered when a pretty face appears in the window across from me. The girl looks around eighteen or nineteen with a cute nose and freckles on her cheeks. Her skin is quite tanned and her blonde hair scruffy; a surfy chick, I have no doubt. 

"Hello?" she says. There's uneasiness in her voice. "Where are we? Who are you?"

"Richard," the gruff voice of my neighbour answers. "I'm Richard."

The girl isn't looking at me anymore, but to my left where my cell mate must be.

"Um. Hi. I'm Carla." She looks back at me expectantly. "And you?"

I pause. My name. What is my name? There's an unusual blankness in my mind that I haven't felt before. Perhaps it's the part the bullet blew out... if that really happened. The girl is still looking at me, waiting, her light blue eyes watering slightly. I can't think of my name. I'll have to lie.

"My name is Martin," I say. Wait, that's my father's name. Well, it'll have to do.

"Hello Martin," Carla says. There's a hint of a smile, but I can tell she's still anxious and confused. "You... you wouldn't happen to know where we are, would you?"

I shake my head.

"I'm sorry. I just woke up here. I mean, a second ago I was in my flat and..."

I stop. Is this a good time to say that I just committed suicide? Waking up in an empty, doorless box is crazy enough; I don't need to tell my new friends about my life ending antics.

"And what?" Richard's low voice barks at me.

"Nothing," I say quietly.

"Bullshit."

It's a different voice. A more menacing voice. The window to the left of Carla suddenly darkens, and a face appears between the bars. It's a man; a negro. He must be tall, because it seems he's bending down to look through.

"Bullshit, man. I'd give twenty to one odds that I can guess what you were doing."

"You been there the whole time?" Richard growls.

"I woke up in time to hear most of your blabbin'. Richard, Martin, and I'm guessing that sweet sounding thing next door to me is Carla."

Carla can't see the new man, but she recoils from the window slightly after being addressed in such a way. Richard makes another snorting noise. He obviously doesn't like the guy.

"And what do we call you? Punk ass gang banger?"

"Don't you be stereotyping me with that racist suburban attitude. Shit, man. My _name_ is Clancy. Lance for short."

"Doesn't sound shorter to me," Richard mumbles.

"Guys, please!" Carla cries. There's a tinge of panic in her voice that stops my cell mates bickering in their tracks. "Please. This isn't helping. We have to work out where we are. And... if we can escape."

"Buggered if I know," Richard says. "Like my friend next door says; up until a second ago, I was in my office. Now I'm here."

"Then you're a damn liar, just like he is," Lance replies. "Admit it. Tell them what you were really doin'."

"What are you talking about?" Carla says, her voice high pitched.

"He's just talking crap," Richard flouts.

"No, you're not takin' responsibility for you're actions. Be a man, why don't you? _Admit it_!"

"_Admit what_??" Richard bellows.

"That you just committed suicide, that's what!"

There's a short gasp from Richard's cell, and Carla puts her hands to her face.

"No... how... how do you know that?" she sobs.

"I'll give you one guess," Lance says bitterly.

The other two don't respond, so I guess I have to step up to the plate.

"Because you just did as well?" I sigh. There's a sick, queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach; a feeling of dread that churns so violently I feel the taste of vomit rise in my throat and sink back down again. "You killed yourself. Just like we did"

"You're damn right I just killed myself," Lance says. "And I know I couldn't have been saved and taken to some hospital, because the last time I looked I was spread across two city blocks. They'll be scraping me off the side walk all day."

I don't know if Carla was fighting the same stomach problem as I was, or whether Lance's words had just been too graphic. But suddenly she's gone from the window and the sound of dry retching fills our ears.

"Oh god..." she sobs between convulsions. "Oh god, why, oh god."

"Err... Miss. Are you alright?" Richard calls softly. His gruff voice has taken on a smoother, calmer tone. "Take it easy."

"No!" she screams. "No! Why am I here? Why?" There's a loud bang, followed by another one. She must be throwing herself against the walls.

"Hey! Sweet Thing! Chill out," Lance calls. He too has taken on a calmer tone, though his use of language hasn't improved. "Look, if it was the sidewalk thing, I'm sorry. But beating yourself up like that ain't going to help anything."

"What does it matter?" she yells back. "I'm dead. We're all dead."

"I don't know about that," I say. There's a brief silence, then some scuffles as she comes back to the window.

"What do you mean?" she asks. Her eyes are puffy, and face bright red. "You just killed yourself too, right?"

"Yeah. I did. And it felt realer then anything else in my whole life. But now... I don't know."

I put my arms through the bars and out into the corridor, then put one hand on my wrist.

"I can feel it. My heart: beating. I'm breathing as well. And if I pinch myself," I do so to illustrate the point, "I can feel that too."

There's another pause as the others test out my statements. I can see Lance putting a hand on his chest, and Carla is blowing onto her hand.

"Ticking over here," Richard says.

"Me too," agrees Lance.

"So? What do you make of it?" I ask. "Are we alive?"

"Maybe," Richard says. "But how?"

I hear heavy footsteps, the sound fading, then coming back again. Richard must be pacing.

"I mean, honestly. How the hell could we be? People don't just... come back. It doesn't even fit that Krishna-reincarnation crap. It could just be a dream? I'm sure I breathe in my dreams."

I don't really know how to answer him. Maybe it is a dream? Just a very realistic one. Maybe it's like one of those weird sci-fi films, where our lives were the dream, and _this_ is reality. Alternate dimensions, mental projections... as stupid as all those cheesy Hollywood storylines seemed at the time, how else can we explain our situation?

My thoughts are interrupted when I realise Carla is saying something. No, singing. She's singing a soft little song; sad and lonely. I'm positive I've heard it on the radio at some point, or maybe in a movie.

"...and I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad. The dreams in which I'm dieing are the best I've ever had..." She stops and lets out a short laugh. "Hah. I used to love that song. Now I'm not so sure..."

I can't remember the song, but the words strike a cord with me. It's an eerie, uncomfortable feeling.

"How could this happen?" Carla sighs. "What is this place?"

"Well... It's only a guess," Lance replies. "But I got a fair idea,"

"Oh yeah?" growls Richard.

"Yeah. And it ain't nothing that involves you or your pampered cracker ass. So just shut up and listen."

There's a loud bang and the ring of something metallic. Richard must have lunged at the bars.

"Pampered?" he snarls. "What the hell would you know? I worked my knuckles down to the bone to support my lifestyle; the fucking _bone_! What's the most work you ever done? Walking down to the government office for your lazy ass welfare cheque?"

Lance isn't saying anything, but I can tell he's fuming. He's either trying to stop from cracking, or just building up to it.

"How'd you do it anyway?" Richard continues. "How'd you end it all? Gang shoot out? Crack over dose? You take on some cops and lose?"

"Hey, screw you, man!" Lance finally snaps at my provoking neighbour. "I was a devout Christian: you got no right to say shit like that. If I needed to hear the opinion of a balding, dumpy, middle aged white man, I'd take a walk on the street."

Richard snorts, but doesn't say anything further.

"Now, if we've heard enough from the racist peanut gallery, maybe you have time to hear me out." Lance shoots a deathly glare at the cell next to me.

"Fine. Whatever," comes the response.

"Good. Now see, as a Christian. We're told certain things -"

"My parents were Catholic," Carla whispers.

"That's nice, sweet thing, but unless you followed in their footsteps you probably haven't got the slightest clue." Lance replies. "As a Christian, we're told that if we're good, we go to Heaven. We'll sit with God and Jesus in a place where all our dreams can come true."

"Yeah, with fifty virgins at our beck and call," Richard mumbles.

"Wrong religion, asshole. Christian Heaven is a reward for a lifetime of self sacrifice, or a place where the wretched in life can catch a break in death. But, if your life is full of sin, Hell will be your eternal home."

"But this doesn't seem like Hell," I say. "Where's the fire, the brimstone? No big guy with a pitchfork?"

"Yeah, funny, little man," Lance scowls. "But I don't think this is Hell either. I never really read the bible, but my father was your typical doom bringing anti-sinner. I mean damn, living with six brothers and sisters... the only way our parents could control us was to put the fear of the Devil into us! They made sure good old Lucifer and his fiery pits were the source of all our childhood nightmares. But there's something else I remember vaguely. Something my old man told me, and it has to do with our situation."

"What?" asks Richard. There's still a sneer in his voice, but Lance chooses to ignore it. This time.

"Well, there was this kid. At school. Tried to kill himself by turning on all the gas taps in the science labs and closing all the doors and windows. The school tried to keep it quiet and all, but nobody likes gossip more then school mums."

I smile secretly to myself when I hear this. Mum. I haven't thought about her in a long time. I can barely remember what she looks like. Long brown hair and a soft voice is all that remains. But I remember she loved to talk. She used to make me bring friends over, just so she could trap their parents and catch up on the latest rumours. Hah. Mum.

"My parents got wind of the incident, and pounced on us like the good intervening Christians they were. 'Don't you go doing irresponsible behaviour like that!' my Dad hollered. 'Suicide is a sin against God. People who take their own lives aren't wanted by Heaven or Hell. There's a world of grey waiting for those people; you'll be lost forever and no one will give a damn.'"

Carla turns a shade paler and moves back from the window.

"I... I remember something like that too. What was it called?"

"Purgatory," Richard says. "I'm not a religious man, but even I know that."

There's a silence as all four of us think about it. Purgatory. Limbo. A world of infinite nothingness. It makes sense.

"A world of grey..." I breathe. "Well, you're father was close. It's not grey, but I understand the meaning behind it. If only he could see how white it really is."

"My old man died three years," Lance says quietly. "I sure hope he's not in this place somewhere as well."

"If he didn't off himself, I doubt he would be," Richard replies. "I think this world is definitely reserved for people like us. It's too coincidental that we all did the same thing, and all ended up here."

I don't know if Richard is subtly trying to make up for his racist outburst earlier, or whether he's just thinking aloud. From what I've heard so far, I'm leaning towards the latter.

"Lance," Carla says suddenly, addressing him by name for the first time. "If you knew about this, how come you still... wanted to die?"

Lance has moved back in his cell, so I'm unable to see his face. But I can clearly hear the hurt and frustration in his voice.

"Let's just say there is - or was - some beef between me and God recently. He had some explaining to do and I... well, I decided to find out exactly how merciful our Lord is. I guess I should have remembered the part about 'not putting Gods love to the test.' Contradictory bullshit-"

"Do you hear that?" Richard says suddenly.

Carla looks towards his cell, her eyes widening slightly.

"What? Hear what?"

"Shh," he says. "Listen."

We all go dead silent and strain our ears, trying to hear even the slightest noise. It's not long before the sound reaches me too.

"What the hell is that?" I whisper.

"Sounds like footsteps," Lance replies.

"And... and whistling?" Carla says, a confused look on her face. "Is there someone else in a cell close by?"

"Whoa! Who the hell is that?"

Lance's long black arm comes out through the bars and points down the corridor to my right. I follow his finger, and see for myself. Someone is walking up the hallway. Someone... something. It looks human in shape but it's... more like a shadow. That's the only way to describe it. A black, shadowy mist in the shape of a fat man is coming our way.

"Jesus Christ..." breathes Richard.

The Shadow Man is waddling along in that strange, tottering walk that overweight people have. In his right hand he has a long, black stick. He's swinging it around as he walks towards us. And the whole time he's whistling a tune; a happy, lively little jingle one might hear from a day dreaming park stroller.

"Is that what I think it is?" Lance asks.

"Yeah," I answer. "He looks like one of those English police. You know; a copper."

-----

I don't know what's going through the heads of my cell mates, but I know what's going through mine. _What the hell is a policeman made of shadows doing in a place like this?_

An interesting question, but as the Shadow Cop draws near I find my jaws are suddenly clenched tighter then a rusty vice. Am I afraid? Is that it? But why should I be? Heck, I've already died once today, what's the worse that could happen?

The whistling shadow is only a few feet away now, and Lance is staring at him with eyes almost bulging out of their sockets. Is he afraid too? Or maybe he's mad. A sudden stab of fear makes my heart jump; he wouldn't try to grab the cop as he went past, would he? What would happen then??

I'm about to find out, as the man-shadow has reached Carla and I, and is casually walking past. He's still whistling happily, completely oblivious. Now I can see him up close, I notice the details that are visible on his body. There are very faint lines outlining his clothing and features; actually, it reminds me of a chalk board. The basic sketches of his sleeves, buttons... even his nose, are vaguely present in thin white marks that seem to shimmer in the light.

The cop walks past us, either not noticing or choosing to ignore the prisoners staring at him. Now he's going past Lance. I hold my breath, but the tall black man doesn't make any sign that he's going to reach out. In fact, it looks like he's holding his breath too.

With the Shadow Man past our cells, any fear I had disappears. What the hell was that? Couldn't he see us? Why were we ignored? In a sense, I feel a bit insulted. But despite that, I still can't bring myself to call out. So if Carla hadn't, the cop probably would have continued on his merry way, uninterrupted.

"Excuse me?" she says softly.

The Shadow Man stops mid step, his whistle cut short also. Even the swinging stick hangs frozen in the air. Then he spins on his heel and turns back our way, hands set firmly on his hips.

"Hmmm?"

I see him look at Lance's window, then Carla's, then mine. A shadowy hand comes up to scratch his head as he gazes toward where I assume Richard is.

"Allo, allo. Well, I'll be blowed! I didn't even see ya's there!" His voice has a heavy English accent; I think it's called 'cockney'. I find that I have some trouble just picking out where one word ends and the other starts. "Four o' ya's? 'Ere now, this is a rare treat."

"E-excuse me?" Carla repeats. "Who... who are you?"

The Shadow Cop waddles over to stand in front of her cell. His broad shoulders and chest completely block her window from view, so I can only hear her gasp slightly as he leans in to look at her.

"Aawww... Miss, is it? Tch," he makes a clicking sound with his tongue while shaking his head, obviously unimpressed. "You're far to pretty to be in a place like this, Miss. Tch, tch. Whatta waste."

"What? What do you mean?" she cries. "I don't want to be here."

"But you are. And that means you gone and done the deed. There's no undoing it now. Tch. Such a shame."

"I believe she asked who you were," Richard growls. He seems to take a disliking to every new male that comes along. Must just be his nature.

The Shadow Cop turns around and looks in his direction.

"Me? I'm the guard."

"Guard?" Lance questions. "Guard of what?"

"This place. I can't really say more then that; to tell the truth I dunno all that much about it meself."

"Could you tell us what you do know then?" I ask. I'm hoping he'll cooperate. Information is something I could really do with at the moment.

The Shadow Guard scratches his head again, which appears to be bald. It's hard to tell with the wispy black mist all around him.

"Well... I can tell ya a little, I spose."

"Please!" Carla cries, suddenly grabbing the bars. There's tears in her eyes again, and that slight hint of panic in her voice. "Please! Tell us! Help us."

"I can't help you," the cop says, shrugging. "Against the rules. Ya gonna have to figure this out yaselves."

"Figure what out?" Lance asks.

The cop lets out a sigh and moves to stand between all of our cells.

"Well, this 'ere place is for those who choose to end their lives prematurely. I dunno the official name... I've heard it called 'the waiting room' and 'the asylum' by some -"

"Purgatory?" Richard interrupts.

"Aye, that's a common one. 'Limbo' as well. There're many, many cells along this corridor; I've been walking down it for as long as I can remember, and it ain't never seems to twist or circle back. And 'cause it's so big, I usually only ever meet one person atta time."

"One person, alone in a random cell?" A shiver goes down my spine at the thought of waking up in this place completely alone. Having people nearby helped ease the shock of it, I admit. I don't know how I would have coped otherwise.

"Aye. Just one person. They committed the sin, and popped up in 'ere. I tell 'em what I can and then move on. But this 'ere... this is a special case, it seems."

"Us? Why?" Carla asks. "Because we're all so close together?"

"Aye," the cop says; a puzzled tone in his voice. "I ain't actually met more then two this close before, to be 'onest."

"Yeah? So what?" Lance spits. "What's that supposed to mean to us?"

"It means," the cop says, turning to face the tall black man glaring at him from behind the bars, "that ya fates were all some'ow connected."

"Bullshit. I never met any of these deadbeats in my life!"

"Well, if that's the case," the guard puts a misty hand to his chin and begins to pace a few steps back and forth, "then it probably means that ya actions in some way affected each others lives."

"Something I did killed these guys??" Carla gasps, a look of horror on her face.

"No, no! I didn' mean that. But what you did might've been part of a chain... a buncha events that led to ya's all seeking the same way out."

I take a hard look at the faces of both Carla and Lance, looking for features that might jog my memory. But nothing rings a bell. I'm positive I've never seen them before.

"If we find out the connection..." I say slowly, "... what will that mean?"

The guard turns my way, and although I can't make out any expression on his face, I swear he's smiling.

"The entry lists for Heaven and Hell are long ones. Think of 'em as the night clubs of all night clubs. If ya try to sneak in before it's yer turn in line, ya gonna get bounced."

"_What the hell does that mean_?" Lance bellows. "Just tell us straight and cut the metaphorical shit already. I'm pissed off and confused enough as it is without trying to understand crap like that."

The guard ignores him.

"The people who end up 'ere get another chance... one day. They gotta wait for the higher ups to check out the facts, ya see? After all, a person does a lot of things in their lives, and it can take a long time to sort through the good and the bad. But you four 'ere..."

The cop does a slow turn, pointing at each of us in turn with his misty black stick.

"You four 'ave an advantage. You can talk it through. Find out the reasons ya 'ere, and whether ya good deeds outweigh ya sins. I can't say for sure... but working out yer connections might be the key to ya's gettin' out o' 'ere."

None of us want to speak. I don't think we know what to say. After awhile, the Shadow Man seems to take our silence as an acknowledgement of his words, and nods his head my way.

"Right then, I'll be off. Good luck to ya's and all."

I want to say something. I want to cry out for him to stop and tell us more, tell us how to escape. But nothing comes into my head. I can only stand and watch as he waddles down the corridor, whistling happily, and eventually out of view.

-----

"Dammit!" yells Lance, banging his hands against the bars. "He told us squat. I wish I _had_ made a go at him now; shaken some goddam sense out of him."

"I doubt that would have done anything," I say. "He didn't exactly look... touchable."

"I thought he was nice." Carla has disappeared from the window; I think she's sitting underneath it. Her voice sounds... faint. Far away. I hope she's not losing it.

"So what now?" Richard asks. "He said we should talk. Figure out what we have in common, or how we know each other from when we were... alive."

"I told you's before, I ain't never seen either of your cracker asses," Lance scowls. "I can't see Sweet Thing there, but I know I don't recognise her voice."

"No one sounds familiar to me either," I agree. "Is it possible we forgot things when we passed over?"

"Who's going first?" Carla's voice asks suddenly.

Lance and I look at each other. Going first? I get a bad feeling her mind's heading down the same track it was on before she arrived here. Is it even possible to commit suicide in a place for people who commit suicide? Where would you go after _that_? Next door to me, I hear Richard clear his throat.

"Er... first for what, Miss?"

She doesn't answer for a long time. I can just picture her; sitting under the window, knees under her chin. Rocking, perhaps. This isn't a place to lose ones mind, but there's nothing to stop it happening either.

"Carla? Don't leave us," I call. "The Shadow Cop said we have to work together."

"Exactly," she answers. "So who's going first?"

I look at Lance again. He shrugs. Yeah, big help you are, Mr. Good Christian.

"We don't know what you mean," Richard says, slightly agitated. "Talk to us. Tell us how your feeling."

I hear her sigh, then sniff loudly.

"It's pretty obvious. He wants us to talk about our last few days alive. The reason why we chose to die, and everything leading up to it."

"To Hell with that!" Lance yells. "That ain't none of your business. Frankly, I see my last moments as being between myself and that bitch, God. I don't need to explain myself to no one."

"She might be right," Richard says thoughtfully. "I don't think you have much choice. If we're going to work out our connection, we're going to have to talk about it."

I leave the window for a second, feeling that sick twist in my stomach again. Do I really want to relive those last few days? Do I really want to _share_ them with anyone? I have to do a slow lap around my cell to keep the nausea away. Damn. I can't do this.

"Yo, Martin? What the hell you doing, man?" Lance calls. "Get your ass back here; now's not the time to pussy out."

I want to go back to the window, but I'm afraid they'll talk me into it. I can't go first. I won't.

"Answer me, little man. Don't make me kick your scrawny white ass."

"Yeah, and just how do you plan on doing that?" Richard doesn't miss any chance when it comes to bagging his black neighbour. I doubt he'd be so cocky if they were in closer proximity though. "You've got a big mouth on you for a man trapped in a box."

"Man, listen to your own yuppie ass! I'm just trying to keep things going here. We don't need anyone else flipping out; why do you have to get so damn personal?"

I listen to them bicker as I circle my cell again, my thoughts churning. No way. Not happening. I'd rather stay here and rot. I won't do it.

"Martin, do as he says and answer us," Richard calls sternly. The commanding tone of his voice snaps me out of it slightly.

"I... I can't go first," I say at last. "Someone else has to. Maybe once I've had time to think... just not yet."

"Alright, man, whatever. That's cool. Just stay with us." Hearing Lance calmer makes me relax as well. A slowly head back to the window.

"So... who _is_ going to go?"

"Well, since the Miss suggested it, I vote she does." Richard isn't trying to sound cruel, but the seriousness in his words let us know he's not joking.

"I hate to do it, but I agree with the Mr. Man-boob Sporting Business Prick there," Lance nods. "What you think, Sweet Thing? You suggested it; you strong enough to lead the way?"

There's no answer. I pray she's not in the process of biting her tongue or gouging flesh out of her wrists with her nails. Killing myself was hard enough; I don't want to sit here and listen to someone else slowly dieing.

"Alright."

"What?" all three of us say simultaneously.

"Alright," Carla repeats. Finally, I hear shuffling, and her face appears in the window. Although she looks very pale and tired, I want to breathe a sigh of relief. At least she's seems with it again.

"You're going to start?" I ask, studying her face. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," she nods. "After all, it was my idea. I'll be ok."

"Good for you, Sweet Thing." Lance's voice is full of admiration. "You just take it slow now; we're here with you."

We wait patiently as she rests her face against the bars, her eyes closed. I can imagine the internal struggle she's battling at the moment... I almost succumbed to it only moments before. She takes a deep breath, then opens her eyes.

"My boyfriend is too nice," she says.


	2. Carla's Side – Her–Hero

**Carla's Side - Her/Hero**

_"My boyfriend is too nice..."_

Carla awoke with a start. The watch on her wrist was vibrating silently; the seven thirty alarm that got her up for work every morning. She looked at the clocks face, just be sure.

"8:00" it said.

"Shit!" she hissed. Had she really been so drunk last night that she'd managed to sleep through half an hour of the watches buzzing? She was going to be late!

She threw off the blankets and sat up... then froze in place. This wasn't her bed.

Carla looked around the room she was in. This wasn't her room. This room was huge; filled with expensive furniture and art that should have been in a museum gathering dust somewhere. Where was she? Cold sweat broke out on her forehead as she slowly turned to look at the person sleeping in the bed beside her.

Oh, god.

He was lying on his side, snoring softly. Pasty skin. Love handles. And a back full of hair that would have put a gorilla to shame. Carla had to put a hand over her mouth to stop from gagging. What had she done?

Launching off the bed, she hurried as quietly as she could around the room, looking for her clothing. Undies. Purse. Socks. Mini skirt that covered just that much. But where the hell was her bra?

The man in the bed gave a soft moan and shifted in his sleep. Had he rolled over? Carla ground her teeth and squeezed her eyes firmly shut. No, she wouldn't look at him. Couldn't look at his face; if she did, it would haunt her for months to come. She had to get out, fast, before he woke up.

"Forget the bra," she whispered, grabbing her halter top off a nearby chair. He could keep some souvenir of her. She had plenty more at home.

Hopping awkwardly, she tried to put on her socks while pulling her top over her head at the same time. This resulted in her tripping and landing with a soft thud on the carpeted floor. Carla lay there, eyes closed again, waiting for the pain in her shoulder to subside.

'Shit, that hurt. Please, don't wake up,' she silently prayed. A minute of silence told her that she was still safe, so she opened her eyes. The man's trousers lay inches from her nose. Expensive denim ones; still had that 'shop fresh' smell. And in the right hand side pocket, Carla saw the telltale brown leather of a wallet.

_"Hey there, sugar. Can I buy you a drink?"_

The cheesy pick up line flashed into her mind, making her squint with pain. That wallet. He'd been holding that bulging, cash filled wallet in his hand when he said that. She could clearly see it, stuffed to the brim with cards and notes, being offered so earnestly.

"Bastard," she hissed. How many times had that worked before, on how many other intoxicated girls? She cursed herself for having fallen for it so easily.

"I bet you think you can buy any girl by flashing your fortune. Well, this time you'll really pay."

She sat up and grabbed the wallet from its pocket. Opening it, she found twenty one-hundred dollar bills and a multitude of different credit cards. The Platinum American Express glinted at her, beckoning. Calling.

"This is revenge," she sniffed, stuffing the notes into her purse and removing the card from its holder. "Revenge for making me betray the one I love... again."

She gripped the card firmly in her hand, and finished pulling on her last sock. Then she hurried out of the room and into the hallway, picking up her shoes on the way.

-----

Two thousand dollars and a Platinum Express. 

'Forget work', Carla thought on her way down the elevator. 'I've got twenty minutes max before Mr. Gorilla wakes up and starts tearing apart the joint. I have to shop while I can.'

The elevator seemed to go on forever; apparently she'd been in a forty third floor suite. No wonder it had been so extravagant. Squeezed in a back corner of the lift, she held her purse up close to her chest, feeling uncomfortable being braless behind a fabric as thin as the halter top. Crap, maybe she should have looked harder for it after all.

What had she done? What was she doing? Carla closed her eyes and let out a sigh, then banged her head against the wall of the lift. Idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot. She swore after the last time it would never happen again. How had she allowed herself to come full circle? She opened her eyes and stared at the mirror on the ceiling... then cried out in shock at what she saw.

Panda eyes! Oh god, her mascara was running to oblivion. She hadn't even bothered to look for a mirror in the suite; her only thought was to get out of there as fast as she could. Panicking, she scrambled through her purse, looking for some 'Make-Up Away' wipes. There was no time to try and redo it now.

"Shit," she cried as the contents fell out all over the elevator floor. "Shit, why? I don't need this."

She was still desperately trying to scoop up the various items when the elevator came to a slow halt.

-DING- it said. She looked up at the seemingly endless rows of numbers. "4" was illuminated.

"No," she whispered. Had Gorilla Man woken up? Could he have already called security and got them to lock down the building? Floor 4; she'd been so close.

The metal doors of the lift opened slowly, and Carla found herself being stared at by a tall young man. He was wearing a red and white uniform, the kind of attire hotel staff are expected to wear, and behind him was a trolley full of laundry. A towel boy.

"Miss?" he said, a look of surprise and concern on his face.

Carla could only imagine how she looked to him; crouched on the floor of the elevator, make-up leaking like some sad circus clown, and an assortment of women's sanitary items scattered about her feet. She wouldn't have batted an eye if he'd run screaming for the hills.

As it was, he dropped the empty bucket in his hands and bent down on the floor in front of her.

"Here, let me help you with that."

Carla could only sit there, hands resting uselessly at her sides, staring as he refilled her purse. Then she burst into tears.

-

She felt better by the time they'd picked up her things and reached the ground floor. The towel boy had helped her find the wipes, and led her to a bathroom. He'd even waited outside until she finished cleaning her face and crying on the toilet.

"Feeling better?" he asked as she opened the door slightly and peeked out.

"Yes," she nodded. She felt more confident now that her skin was clear and blonde hair brushed. Carla opened the door and stepped out into the foyer, bag held up over her chest again.

"Um... thanks for helping me," she smiled. The towel boy smiled back, showing rows of perfectly white teeth.

"Hey, no problem. It beats doing the laundry any day."

Carla nodded, and started to turn to leave.

"Well, it was nice meeting you. I have to go -"

"Wait!" he cried, putting a hand on her shoulder. She immediately flinched away and backed up against the wall.

"Whoa, sorry," he said quickly, putting his hands up. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"That's... ok," Carla said.

"I just wanted to ask... um..." the towel boy paused and scratched the back of his neck, "Um... just wanted to know if I could... have your number?"

Carla felt her face flush red hot, and knew she was blushing. Even when she looked like an escaped mental patient, she still managed to attract them. It was more embarrassing then thrilling.

"Oh, I see," she said, stepping away from the wall and closer to the young man. "You're a nice guy, and I can't thank you enough for the help. But I have a boyfriend... and he's really nice too."

The towel boy smiled and looked at his feet sadly.

"That's ok. It would have been strange if you didn't. Well, feel free to visit the hotel anytime you like. I'll have a fresh towel ready for you, no matter what."

Carla gave a little laugh, feeling genuinely better inside, and stood up on her tippy toes to give him a peck on the cheek.

"I might just do that. See you!"

She turned and hurried down the polished floors, her shoes squeaking as she did. The towel boy watched her go and sighed.

"Oh well, back to the ironing board," he mumbled.

Carla ran through the giant, spotless foyer, skidding and sliding as she went. There was a reception desk located in the middle of the floor; a big 'U' shaped thing that looked vaguely like some kind of UFO. And in the centre was a blue suited lady, diligently tapping away at the keyboard of a computer. She looked up as the blonde, tanned girl ran past and called out.

"Miss! Miss! Are you checking out?"

"I'm just visiting!" Carla yelled back. She ran straight into the revolving glass doors of the building's entrance and burst out on the other side, almost knocking over an elderly man carrying a briefcase.

"Watch it!" he snarled, before continuing on his way.

Carla stood on the sidewalk, doubled over and gasping for breath. Made it. She'd made it. She was out! She straightened up and stretched her shoulders, reaching her arms out either side. Oh, did that feel good.

Above her, the enormous hotel building she'd just been inside towered high into the sky, its tinted windows shining in the morning sun. The name of the building sat around half way up.

"Hotel Urag Iruno," she read aloud. "How odd." The words looked Japanese, but it was rare and strange to see an oriental owned hotel in this city. What could the name mean?

Hotel Urag Iruno.

As much as the memory of what happened here disgusted her, she thought she should keep the name in the back of her mind. Just in case. That towel boy was very kind.

Her view came down and settled on a billboard further up the street. There was a cartoon depiction of a man on it; a muscly, big chinned Super Hero wearing a green mask and matching uniform. He stood proudly, hands on hips, atop a pile of garbage, while the streets and buildings sparkled around him.

"Remember Kids!" the big, striking block letters announced. "Captain Nature says: Pick Up Your Trash, and Keep Our City Clean."

Captain Nature. The cities newest icon and environmental spokesperson. He was in every second TV ad, his powerful voice filled the radio airwaves. It was the governments last ditch effort to inspire today's youth to care for their planet. The money they made from merchandising on the side was just icing on the cake.

"Thanks for the advice, Captain Nature," Carla said, putting one hand on her chest and raising her purse hand in a salute. "I'll remember that."

Something fell from the purse and landed on the concrete with a clatter. She looked down, praying it wasn't another embarrassing women's item, and was relieved to see it was only the Platinum American Express. She quickly bent down and snatched it up before anyone else noticed.

"That right!" Carla said excitedly. "I've got unfinished business with you. Let's go shopping."

She clutched the card tightly in one hand, the purse in the other, and ran quickly down the street. Leaving the hotel as far behind as she could.

-----

Luckily for her, Gorilla man's signature was far from hard to forge. That, coupled with certain employee choices made by each business, meant her whirlwind shopping spree was quite profitable.

The first thing on the list had been, of course, a new bra. She immediately headed for the most expensive collections, and began to place them against her halter top.

"To frilly. Underwire to thick. To small."

Though she wasn't displaying it, inside, guilt was beginning to gnaw at her like a hungry animal. It had started in her stomach; stirring as if awakening from a long slumber. It had since climbed its way to the bottom of her rib cage, and was still clawing its way upward.

"Got to be perfect. Perfect and beautiful. He'll never suspect a thing. I'll make it up to him."

Carla searched for the lingerie she knew her boyfriend would like. Something that would make his face light up, make him forget all the worry he felt while waiting for her to come home last night. She eventually settled on a slightly see-through, soft pink bra. Not outrageously slutty, but more a subtle sexy that would look mesmerising during a strip tease. She tried it on in the change room and posed in front of the mirror, practising what she'd say when she got home.

"I'm so sorry, Ben... Benjamin... Benny. Baby. I wanted to call, but the girls, they wouldn't give me a minutes peace! Just one cocktail after another. Haha, I can't even remember what happened after the pineapple ones..."

She leaned forward and pouted, pushing the bra together at the same time. Oh yeah, Benny was going to love this. She ripped the tag with the barcode off the side, then put her halter top back on. He probably wouldn't even notice that it wasn't the same bra she was wearing when she left last night. Hopefully.

Leaving the change rooms, she headed over to the counter and handed the tag to the cashier.

"I'll buy that, thanks."

The clerk, a girl probably no older then sixteen, raised an eyebrow.

"Ummm... do you have the rest of the bra?"

"I'm wearing it," Carla replied. "Or would you like me to show you?"

The cashier rolled her eyes and put the barcode under the scanner. 

-BEEP-

"$126.98" appeared in green digital writing on the till's screen.

"Jesus Chr-" Carla almost gasped, before putting a hand to her mouth. She really had gone to the most expensive section.

"Is that cash or credit?" the cashier asked, sounding bored.

"Um... credit," Carla answered. She fumbled around in her purse, before finally fishing out the card. She handed it over to the service girl, only noticing at the last second that her hands were shaking slightly.

The cashier swiped the card, then gave it back to her. Carla stared with wide eyes. What luck! This under paid and probably over worked mid-schooler hadn't even bothered to check the name on the card. If she was lucky, she wouldn't check the signature either.

"Sign here," the check-out chick said, giving her the slip of paper. Carla took it and the pen offered, and bent down to sign it.

'Here we go,' she thought. She'd practised Gorilla man's signature in a phone booth before she'd come to the mall, but her hands were shaking a little more now. There was still a chance the clerk girl might remember her training and suddenly ask to check the name on the card. She had to be careful.

With one fluent motion, Carla signed the piece of paper and handed it back, a thin lipped smile on her face.

"Here you go!" she said, trying to sound cheerful and care-free.

"Thank you for your business," the cashier yawned, putting the paper slip in the till without even looking. "Have a nice day."

Carla left the store, a feeling of exhilaration pounding in her chest. It was a rush, it was a thrill. Why were the naughtiest things always so much fun? But this thought reminded her of the night before and her sultry, flirting bar crawl. The guilt beast devoured her excitement in an instant.

Benjamin was still at home, probably worried sick. She couldn't waste time with personal indulgence. She had a lot to make up for. There was also no telling when Gorilla man would wake up and cancel the card. All hell would break loose then; if she was using it at the time, she'd be questioned by the service person. The police would be into the accounts and tracing the cards last place of use. She had to move fast and dispose of it quickly.

"Come on, you," she said to the card. "We've got presents to buy."

She allowed the spree to last for another twenty minutes before nerves got the better of her and she could shop no longer. As it turned out, twenty minutes had been plenty long enough. No regular or experienced staff seemed to want to work on Saturdays, so nearly all the cashiers were struggling school or university students who cared as little for their job as they did homework. Only one questioned the fact that the name on the card was a man's name, and even he didn't ask twice when Carla said it belonged to her father.

Ah, it was wonderful how the master age of secure technology could be foiled simply by employing staff on a minimum wage.

In total, her bounty included:  
A pair of earrings, worth $500. Make-up and accessories totalling $350. New clothes from various stores at a value close to $2000. And the final item, the one she hoped would make Ben forgive and forget any misgivings he would have; a silver Rolex, worth $4,799.

That final purchase had been the end of her. When the clerk had questioned about the man's name, she's almost fainted from the stress of it. But he hadn't pushed the matter - probably just glad to be making a sale - and she'd walked out of there, shaking but satisfied.

She'd done it. She had what she needed to make Ben as happy as she could. He would smile and kiss her, and everything would be alright. The guilt beast would settle back down to its long slumber, and they'd be able to continue their lives as if nothing had happened.

"Thanks for your help," she said, giving the card a kiss. "Wish me luck."

She dropped the card into a garbage can and walked confidently towards the mall exit, giving some chatting security guards a sweet smile as she went. Everything was going to be ok now.

-----

As it so often happens to those riding an adrenaline wave, the many complications present in her plan did not come to light until afterwards. She was almost home, walking casually along the street. Then she heard the phone call.

"... find it kinda funny... ... kind of sad... dreams... I'm dieing... best I've ever had..." came the muffled 'true-sound' ring tone in her purse. Carla had to put down half her paper shopping bags (_"Captain Nature says: Use Recycled Paper, Kids! It's Safer For the Environment!_) before she could finally pull the mobile out.

"Hello?" she said, before getting an earful of blasting song. "Damn, forgot to press the talk button."

"Hello?" she repeated, hoping she'd pressed it properly this time.

_"Carla? That you?"_

"Yes, it's me."

_"Where the hell are you? It's half past nine; you're half an hour late for work. We've got customers lined out the door!"_

A shiver shot down her spine. Dear god, it was her boss. She hadn't even bothered to check the number on the screen before answering.

"M-m-mrs Icthyman!" she stammered. "I'm so sorry... I forgot to call. I'm... sick. Very sick. It wouldn't be good for me to come in and -"

_"Don't give me that shit. You went out last night; I heard you girls talking about it at lunch. Let me remind you that 'hang over' is not a legitimate sickness in my book."_

"I'm really sick!" Carla pleaded, adding a croaking to her words. "It's a nasty virus -cough- that Benny brought home. I'm afraid it'll spread to the food if I come in."

"_Tell me your sob story some other day; I've got a business to run. Lucky for you, Marie was able to cover your shift. So go surfing, stay home and screw that boyfriend of yours. I don't care! But if you ever pull shit like this again, you'll be out on your arse faster then you can turn a trick."_

There was a -blip-, and the phone went dead. Carla could only stand on the street, staring blankly with the mobile to her ear. She was breathing heavily, and a single tear ran down the side of her nose. 

"Sh-hh-it," she sobbed. "M-m-maybe skipping work w-wasn't such a good idea."

She shakily picked up her bags and took a few more steps, before collapsing onto a nearby bench. What was she doing? She looked at all the new things she'd bought; the fancy clothes, the beautiful earrings. The Rolex. This wasn't right.

She worked in a Fish and Chip shop!

Ben would never believe it. On her wage, there was no way she could have saved enough money to buy these items. So where did she get them from? Family inheritance? Gift from the girls? No, he'd know in an instant that she'd either stolen them or used stolen money. This was a disaster.

Carla slumped on the bench, staring at all the gifts she now couldn't give. Inside her, the guilt beast shifted, and something new squeezed in beside. Despair, that evil harpy, was trying to claim her own place in Carla's heart as well. Two monsters, fighting for control over her emotions; it was all Carla could do to lean forward and focus on breathing.

Breathe... breathe...

The words worked to calm her. Breathe. There was a way out of this. She could still make it up to Ben. She'd just have to get rid of the expensive objects. Yes, that was it. Get rid of them.

She sat up and looked around. The sidewalk was relatively bare; nobody on these streets seemed to like getting up early on a weekend. On her side of the street was an endless line of box homes _("And they all live in little boxes, and they all look just the same")_; boring, brick structures that looked like mournful faces in an evening light. Carla recalled many a time, walking home from work at night, when she had felt scared enough to call Ben to come and meet her because she was afraid to go by the houses alone.

On the other side of the street were some simple Mum-and-Pop home businesses: a small convenience store, a second hand book shop, and an electronics retailer that specialised in foreign imports. She'd walked by it many times and stopped to look at the television in the window. It was always playing some strange cartoons made overseas.

"New DVD Release!" the sign on the television usually read. "Manga now also available. Ask within."

Carla gazed wearily at the stores. It didn't look like any customers were inside them yet. Then she noticed it, inbetween the electronics store and the book shop: a dark alleyway with some dustbins lurking a short way down. She sat up on the bench, a pang of hope briefly pushing back the demons fighting inside her.

The street was almost deserted. No one would see her. She could just dump the stuff in the bins and head home like nothing ever happened. She could still fix things. Carla looked to her left and right, rechecking that the coast was clear. It was.

Cautiously, she picked up the paper bags and hurried across the road. She slowed down as she reached the convenience store, trying to walk naturally.

"Nothing going on," she whispered. "Just out for a Saturday morning stroll."

The convenience store owner didn't even glance up from his counter. Carla allowed herself to relax a little. All good so far. She passed the electronics store, glancing casually at the television as she went. It wasn't on yet. Just a blank screen.

Standing in front of the alley, she took one last look around. No one. She had to do it now, or risk losing the chance. Quickly, she ducked between the two stores, and ran to the dustbins. There were three in all; two old and dented, and a shiny new one. Carla took off the lids and looked inside. They were full of old VHS tapes and packaging foam. Not much room for anything else.

"Crap," she frowned. "Oh well, can't back out now."

She rammed the bags into the bins, pushing with all the force she had. The packaging foam compacted a fair amount, giving her some leeway, but there still wasn't much to work with. Holding the garbage down with one hand, she reached for the lids in turn and slammed each one in place, hard. Then she stood over them, breathing heavily and watching for movement.

The lids didn't pop off. The bins didn't explode and spew foam and expensive products all the way up the alley. The deed was done. She was free of her problems... for now.

"Thank god," she sighed, leaning against the alley wall. She was just bending to pick up her purse, when a voice blared in her eardrums, nearly scaring her half to death.

"_RAAA-EEE-YAA RA-RA-E-YO-RA, SOra ni migoto na kinoko no kumo_," it screamed. Carla nearly had a heart attack, and even when the volume was adjusted she found it hard to stay steady.

"Holy shit!" she gasped. She hurried down the alley way and onto the street, before skidding to a sudden and frightening stop. The television was on, and someone was watching it. A young man, dressed in a business suit.

'Oh no...' she thought. Had he seen her? Had he been coming to stop her and got distracted by that blaring voice as well? His face was pressed so close to the glass she couldn't see it; he was completely focused on the screen. Carla took one step back, then another. The man didn't move.

The cartoon on the screen showed multiple laughing characters. Its theme song; an erratic, crazy-happy tune, blared from some speakers sitting above the door. Being so near the music, the man probably couldn't hear her footsteps.

_"Raa-eee-yaa ra-ra-e yo-ra, Komichi de e wo hamu kotori no gogo wa,_" the eerie voice continued to sing; the words hanging in the still, windless air.

"Awesome," Carla heard the man breathe quietly. He definitely hadn't seen her.

'Count your blessings later,' a voice in her own head screamed. Carla promptly obeyed, and fled the scene as fast as her legs could carry her.

-----

The front door squeaked as she tried to open it. 'Dammit', she thought. She'd hoped get in without waking Ben. Carla held her breath and waited. After a few seconds of silence, she pushed the door open enough to look into the hallway.

The lights were off. Ben always slept in on Saturdays, and her watch said it was only '9:45'. If she was lucky, she could just sneak into the bedroom and lie down next to him. He'd be none the wiser. Taking her shoes off, she silently tip-toed down the hallway, glancing in the lounge room as she passed.

Ben was sitting on the sofa.

Carla froze. He was just sitting, staring at the television. It was on, but there was no sound. He must have had it on mute. She could see the dark rings under his eyes, and the pale wane of his skin.

"B-Benny?" she called softly.

His head swung her way, and he looked at her with bloodshot eyes. Then his whole face lit up in a smile.

"Oh! You're back! I didn't hear you come in. Must have been some party."

Carla couldn't stop the tears as they instantly welled up.

"Oh, Benny," she bawled. She ran across the room and almost tackled him on the sofa, wrapping her arms tightly around his chest. "I'm so sorry."

"Hey now," Benjamin said, surprised. "It's ok. I knew you'd be alright; I was only a little worried."

"But you stayed up all night!' she sobbed. "You waited for me, and I didn't even call. I just feel awful... the girls wouldn't let me go, and they gave me too many cocktails and I got sick, and I didn't wake up in time for work this morning and Mrs. Icthyman rang and abused me..."

The words came out in an endless stream, only interrupted by hic's and chokes from the crying. With each lie, the guilt beast climbed higher in her chest, squeezing and clawing. She buried her head in Ben's chest and kept on sobbing, trying to stop the pain.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

Ben didn't say anything, just put a hand softly on her hair and began to stroke it. This made Carla cry even more.

"You're really upset about this, aren't you?" he said after a few minutes. "Why?"

"Why?!" she asked, looking up from his shirt. She could feel puffiness under eyes and the warmth in her cheeks. She must have looked a wreck again. "Aren't you angry?"

"Well," he said thoughtfully, still stroking her hair, "I can't say I approve of you staying out all night, drinking. And yes, you didn't call me. But, in truth that's not what matters to me."

"It's... not?" Carla whimpered.

"No. What matters is that you're back here and your safe," he smiled, moving to wipe away some of her tears. "I don't care what happened as long as you were safe."

Carla felt the guilt beast take one final, viscous lunge at her heart, and then begin to fall away. All the worry, all the stress she had felt since awakening in that strange hotel room was beginning to disappear. Ben had soothed her with just a few loving words.

"Th-thank you," she said, sitting up on the sofa and rubbing her eyes. "I thought you would be so mad at me."

"I'm alright. You didn't do anything wro-"

His sentence was cut off as she took hold of his shoulders and kissed him firmly. She just wanted to forget the whole morning - the whole, horrible morning - and be lost with him now. Ben was surprised, but relaxed after a few seconds.

"Wow," he breathed when she finally pulled away. "Someone's feeling better."

Carla didn't answer, but moved up the sofa instead, giving him a secret smile. He watched as she slowly reached down to the hem of her halter top and began to pull it over her head. She could tell from the look in his eyes that he approved of the new bra.

"Wow," he repeated. "Someone's feeling _much_ better."

Carla took hold of his hand, still smiling that sly smile, and began to lead him towards the bedroom.

-

"I love you so much," Ben said, kissing her lightly on the shoulder. They lay together in bed, spooning, arms entwined.

"I love you too," Carla replied. But to her own ears, the words sounded hollow. There was no conviction, no sincerity. She guessed it was because, inside, she knew she was lying.

Now she was home and safe with Ben, it felt like all the day's dramas had melted away. But that didn't mean she wasn't problem free. The main issues, the ones that had been gnawing at her for weeks now, still lurked, waiting to come to the surface. Like the reason why she had betrayed her relationship yet again last night.

For more then a month, Carla had slowly felt her attraction to Ben dieing. There was no tangible reason why; he was still every bit as handsome as the day they met. He hadn't let the romance slip, and would always choose doing something with her over going out with his buddies.

He was so nice. So incredibly... unusually nice. She could never recall having a real fight with him, or hearing him raise his voice. Ben was one of those Sensitive New Age Guys that all the girls swooned over, and even some men. It was a modern world, after all.

But lately Carla had found herself wishing that, just once, he'd get angry. Rage, cry, scream... break something! Show her that he had a broader spectrum of emotions. Though she was terrified at the time, now she almost regretted that he _hadn't_ gotten upset about her late return. He was so perfect it was like he wasn't human; more like making love to a positive energy... robot! 

Heaven knows she'd broken down numerous times in the past, and he'd managed to pull her through it. She wanted to do that for him; feel like she was an important part of the relationship. She just wanted some _passion_.

All this was the reason why she kept trying to spice up their love life by buying those embarrassing toys. The reason she kept going out every weekend and flirting with strangers. The reason that, unless she was thinking about another man, Carla could no longer climax when making love to Ben.

This time, it had been the towel boy.

The guilt monster gave her innards a sharp twist, and she had to bite her lip to keep from crying. Ben felt her tense up in his arms.

"Honey? Something wrong?"

"No," she said, gripping his fingers in hers. "I'm alright. Just worried about work."

"Everything will be fine. I'll talk to that old trout, Icthyman, if it comes down to it. But if all else fails, you've plenty of talent. You'll have no problem finding another job."

"Hmmm, yeah," she smiled, snuggling closer.

The truth was: even if she was no longer attracted to him, life without Ben was unimaginable. The security his presence offered, the self confidence he gave her. They'd been together so long, she couldn't remember what it was like to be alone. She didn't know if she'd be able to cope.

But she knew she couldn't go on repeating what she'd done last night either.

"I'm going to get some sleep," Ben said, releasing her and rolling over, "I only dozed on the sofa. You should too. You look exhausted. Probably still a little hung over, huh?"

"Yeah, a little," Carla agreed. "Sleep sounds good."

Ben was snoring softly only minutes later. Carla lay awake a lot longer.

-----

"So what do we need?" Ben asked, leaning into the fridge. "We're running pretty low on everything, actually."

It was late afternoon. Carla felt better after the sleep, and was eager to go about her daily life. Now she was standing on the other side of the kitchen bench, going through one of Ben's girlie magazines. She let him buy them since the girls were always modelled in good taste (and were rarely prettier then her). Plus, the articles really were interesting.

"We need milk," she answered. "And bread. Oh, and can you get some of those crumbed pork riblets?"

"Again?" Ben smirked. "I don't know... they're pretty expensive."

"That's ok, I'll pay. There's some money in my purse." Carla flipped through the pages casually. _'The Man Who Ate His Own Face'._ Creepy.

"Well, allow me to covet that from you," Ben chuckled. He picked up her purse from beside the sofa and opened it.

Too late, Carla remembered exactly how much money was in there.

"Ben, wait -"

He hadn't moved. He was staring into the purse, with expression that looked both curious and confused.

"Carla..." he said. "There's a _lot_ of money in here."

Carla bit her lip. She'd thrown away the card and the expensive presents, but she'd forgotten all about the stolen notes. There wasn't even a story to explain them! She had to think quickly.

"Yes, um. I... took it out of my bank," she stammered.

"Carla, there's like, two grand in here!" Ben pulled some scrunched notes out and displayed them. "What kind of night out where you planning?"

"No, no!" she cried. "It wasn't for that. I was going to open a... joint account for us."

Ben raised an eyebrow.

"A joint account? One we share, you mean?"

"Yes. You know, in case we ever get in trouble and our own bank accounts aren't available. I just thought it would be a good emergency plan."

Something in the way Ben looked at her told her he didn't believe it. He was trying, but it just didn't sound plausible. 'This is it,' she thought, 'maybe he'll crack this time.'

"That sounds... like a pretty good idea actually," Ben smiled. He put most of the money back in the purse and kept one note in his hand. "Hah! Who said you don't think ahead?"

Carla allowed a nervous smile as he came over and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"I'm taking this, and I'm going to get us some of the best pork riblets we can get!" he said. He moved to the hallway and waved goodbye. "See you soon!"

Carla waited until she heard the door slam, then the let out a whoosh of held air. That had been close. But still, she found she felt irritated by the fact that he just took her word for gospel all the time.

He didn't believe her. She saw it on his face. He knew she was lying. And yet he didn't question her or probe any further. Just assumed her intentions were pure and went shopping for groceries like a good boyfriend would. She was relieved and infuriated at the same time.

Picking up the magazine, she ran and did a small jump on the sofa, bouncing lightly. The remote sat on the coffee table close by. She reached over and pushed the red "ON' button.

_"-ew Captain Nature animated series, coming this Monday at 8am, only to this network!"_ the TV hollered.

'Great,' Carla thought. 'More Captain Nature.'

She went back to reading the magazine as the advertisement switched over to one of the Captain's many environmental protection announcements. It was that damn ocean one again, Carla saw.

"_Just one plastic bag can kill a sea turtle or a family of Albatross,_" the Super Hero's powerful voice boomed.

"You tell 'em, Captain Nature," Carla said, not taking her eyes off the magazine. Loud instrumental music played as the ocean's mighty defender flew along, sucking up oil spills. She knew the ad off by heart.

_"So remember, kids, keep our beaches and oceans clean! And rrrreeeeecycle!_" -Tant-dadda-dum-

Carla flicked through a few more pages, admiring some particularly nice high heels one model was wearing. It took a minute, but she suddenly realised that the TV had gone silent. She looked up at it, wondering if it had muted somehow.

Captain Nature was still on the screen, standing atop his famous pile of garbage. His glorious, manly chin jutted out, his cartoon teeth were pearly white. That green cape flapped in the breeze.

"Odd..." Carla mumbled. "Network must have frozen." She reached over and pushed the channel button.

The TV flickered to the next station... and Captain Nature continued to beam at her. Carla pushed the channel button again, annoyed. Damn satellites. Had _all_ the stations gone bung?

She kept flicking through, but when every channel proved to be the same she tossed the remote back on the coffee tabled, frustrated.

"Forget it. Stupid thing."

_"Hey now, that's not a nice thing to say,_" the mighty voice of Captain Nature replied.

Carla paused mid page turn. She stared at the TV, blinking disbelievingly. The green costumed Super Hero grinned back.

"Ex... excuse me?" she whispered.

_"You heard me. I said: that's not a nice thing to say."_

Carla screamed and jumped up on the top of the sofa. Unable to get her balance, she promptly fell off and behind it in a tangle of flailing arms and legs.

She leaning against the back of the sofa, her heart pounding against her chest. What the hell was this? She put a hand up to her forehead. Was she asleep? Sick? Or losing her mind...? The TV can't talk to you!

Breathing as quietly as she could, Carla peaked over the back of the couch and looked nervously at the screen.

_"I'm still here,_" it said.

"Aahh!" cried Carla, getting up and banging her back against the wall. "What are you? What do you want?"

_"What am I? Why, I'm Captain Nature of course!_" -Tant-dadda-dum-

"I know that," Carla yelled. "Why are you on my television screen talking to me?"

_"You tell me! You're the one with issues here."_

A chill went down Carla's spine. There was something wrong with this. Something eerily wrong.

"How do you know about that?" she asked.

_"How? Why, because I'm Captain Nature of -"_

"Stop saying that!" she screamed. She came around from behind the couch and pointed an accusing finger at the grinning big-chinned cartoon. "How do you know about what I've done?"

Captain Nature stood atop his pile of rubbish, hands on hips and chest muscles rippling mightily. The wind flapped his cape. But he didn't answer.

Carla waited, her lips quivering. Nothing to say? Was this in her head? With a sigh she went limp and flopped down on the couch. What was happening to her?

_"He knows, you know."_

Carla's eyes opened wide.

"What??"

_"Ben knows. He knows you did something last night. He knows that money isn't yours. He loves you too much to say anything; he wants to trust you with all his heart. But he knows."_

"No!" she screamed. "Shut up! Shut the _hell up_!" She grabbed a cushion off the sofa and hurled it at the TV. It bounced off the aerial, making the picture go fuzzy for a second. It soon cleared. Captain Nature was still there.

"_-a ha ha hah_," the TV chuckled. "_Heh heh heh. You know it's true._"

"You're just a hallucination," Carla sobbed, wide eyed and cradling her head in her hands. "I'm just suffering a break down. Too much guilt. You're not real. You're _not real!"_

Captain Nature went silent except for the gentle flaps of his cape in the breeze. Then he leaned towards the screen and winked.

_"Better answer that phone,_" he said. -Tant-dadda-dum-

The TV gave a violent flicker, then returned to normal advertisements. Carla sat on the couch, shaking uncontrollably.

"God... oh god... what...?" she choked.

From the bedroom, there were some soft tinkles and a familiar tune began to play.

-

"... find it hard to tell you, I find it hard to take. When people run in circles it's a very very..."

Carla stared at her mobile phone, singing and vibrating along her bedside table. It was ringing. Captain Nature had known. But how?

"...mad world... ... mad world..."

Carefully, she edged her way towards the table, more curious then scared. Was it Benny, asking what flavour toothpaste he should buy? Mrs. Icthyman, wanting to abuse her some more? She gulped and reached to pick up the phone. The LCD screen was glowing, displaying some words.

"Unknown Number," it read.

Carla bit her lip. Answer it? Let it ring out? There were only two choices to make, and she had to pick one quickly. The phone had already been ringing for a whole minute. Trembling, she pushed the 'talk' button, and held the phone to her ear.

"H-hello?"

_"You,_" a distorted, electronic sounding voice said. _"You stole from me."_

Carla couldn't say anything. Her mouth wouldn't work.

_"You stole money from me. You stole my card."_

"I... I... I..." she stammered.

_"They're coming for you. They're going to take you away. Lock you up. Now_ you'll _know how it feels to be screwed over. I can't remember your face. I can't even remember the drunken, sweaty gropefest we shared last night. But soon..."_

Carla put a hand over her mouth, stifling any noise.

_"They'll find you soon."_

"NNNNOOO!" she screamed. She threw the phone with all her strength against the wall. It bounced off and fell behind the bed, out of sight.

"I can't take! I can't take it!" she threw herself onto the bed and curled up in the foetal position. "It's too much. Too much... what is happening to me?"

Gorilla man. Mrs. Icthyman. Captain Nature. Their voices ran through her head; accusing, teasing, terrifying. Benny's voice was in there too, but his words of comfort were drowned out in the sea of abuse.

"Go away," she whispered. "I'm sorry. I'll never do it again. I'll be good. I'll love Benny. Just please..."

Everything go away.


	3. Carla's Side – Delusions of Love

**Carla's Side - Delusions of Love**

Sunday morning. Carla waited on the subway platform, arms wrapped tightly around body. Her watch read "8:30". Everyone around her was talking at once, either into their phones or at each other. No one seemed to be listening. An endless babble where separate words weren't even recognisable.

She was alone in a sea of people. 

-

Ben had come home to find her still on the bed, shaking and mumbling. Strangely, he hadn't asked what was wrong. He hadn't even tried to comfort her. He just stood in the doorway, studying her with a look of concern on his face.

Eventually, he went and cooked dinner. The smell wafted to her up the hallway, and she realised how hungry she was. She hadn't eaten much of anything all day. Slowly, she managed to drag herself off the bed and out into the dining room.

Ben had been waiting, her plate sitting ready beside his. He hadn't started eating yet. Carla sat down and they ate in silence, only interacting to the degree of passing the salt. They washed the dishes. They went to bed (without making love). And Ben held her tightly throughout the whole night.

It wasn't until morning that he said his first words since before going out to buy groceries. He woke up at the same time as her to the vibrations of the watch alarm, and leaned over to kiss her cheek.

"How are you feeling now?" he asked.

Carla furrowed her brow in concentration. Strangely, she felt alright inside. The guilt beast seemed to be resting, her fear of Gorilla man had faded. In truth, the only thing she felt was... numbness.

"I think... I'm ok," she replied.

"Are you sure?" Ben asked, sounding concerned, but cautious.

"Yes," she said. "I don't really feel anything at the moment."

Ben was quiet for a long time, but he didn't release his hold around her body.

"I've never seen you like that before," he whispered. "I thought you were upset when you came home in the morning, but last night..." his grip tightened more, "You were different. I was really scared."

"Scared?" she asked, rolling over to look at his face. "Scared of what?"

"That's the thing; I'm not sure," he admitted. "You looked terrified and terrifying at the same time. Shaking so badly, and mumbling those things. I was to afraid to even talk to you in case something I said pushed you over the edge."

Carla studied his face. He truly did look scared, even now. Had she really been that bad? Had she, for a short time, slipped into such a dangerous, unstable state of mind that even Ben felt it unsafe to try and help her?

"You might have done the right thing," she said, putting a hand on the side of his face. "I don't know what happened, but I think I have it under control now."

She smiled and reached up to kiss him. But he averted his face at the last second.

"I... don't know," he said, looking at the wall. "I'm really worried about you. It's not just yesterday either; you've been acting strangely for almost a month now. Maybe you should..."

He paused, pursing his lips together tightly.

"What?" Carla asked, sitting up. "What should I do?"

Ben half rolled out of the bed; sitting on the edge of it, with his legs dangling off the sides.

"No, it's nothing. I shouldn't even be suggesting something like that to the girl I'm in love with."

"What??" Carla grabbed his shoulders. "Please tell me. I won't get upset; really, I'm feeling much better."

He reached back and put one of his hands on hers.

"Maybe... we should think about seeing a professional?" he said sadly. "A relationship councillor or something."

"What? Why??" Carla cried, shocked. "There's nothing wrong with our relationship; we've never even had a fight!"

"I know. But I think it'd just help to ease my worry. I'd hate it to be something I'm doing that's making you this way. I couldn't bear to think that I'm... hurting you."

"You're not, you're not!" Carla wrapped her arms around his neck, hugging him as tightly as she could without cutting off his air. "You're perfect. I couldn't ask for anyone better.

Even as she was saying it, the guilt beast began to stir within her. It rolled over slowly in her stomach, dragging its claws as it went. _Liar_, the pain said. _Just tell him. Save him the torment. Save yourself the torment._ In her minds eye, she was suddenly back in the lounge room. And the TV had clicked on.

"Carla, you're choking me," Ben said.

"Oh! Sorry." She released him and fell back on the bed. She sat, looking at her hands in her lap. "If you really think it's a good idea that we see a professional... then I think it's a good idea too. I'll do it, if that would make you feel better."

Ben finally turned around, smiling slightly.

"Yes, it would. I don't have to work today, so I'll go into the city and ask around. See who would suit us the best." He tipped her chin up so she was forced to look at his eyes. "What are you going to do? Do you feel well enough for work?"

"Yes," she said. "I have to. Icthyman will fillet me if I don't turn up, and besides; it's double time on Sundays. You know we need the money."

"Mmmmm," he said. She hoped he wasn't thinking about the money he'd seen in the purse. "Alright. But take it easy. If that trout gives you any hassles, or you feel like you're going to... get upset again, come straight home."

"Alright," she smiled at him. "I'll do that. I promise."

-

Carla looked at her watch again. "8:34" it said. The train was running late.

"Dammit," she hissed. If she was late, she'd be sacked for sure. And while that wasn't too much of a concern at the moment, having to deal with that shrivelled, bitter old mackerel, Icthyman, was something she could do without.

Besides that, Carla just hated the subway. Being underground, underneath so much cement, waiting for a tin box to roll up so they could all cram in like sardines. She would have taken a bus or a taxi, but the traffic was always terrible at this time of morning. Everyone wanted to get to the beach early before it got crowded, or before the waves became filled with swell hogging surfboarders. For today, the subway would have to do.

'Come on, come on,' she silently willed the train. Where the hell was it?

Close by, a business man was keeping himself entertained with a hand held radio. Carla had been listening to it the past few minutes, even though it was tuned to some kind of old fogies' station. A song that sounded like it might have been popular in the nineteen fifties had just ended.

_"It's 8:35 on this fine, fine morning,_" the DJ said in his smooth, cool tone. _"You're listening to the Breakfast Blues with me, Rokin' Rickie. We'll be back with more music after a word from our sponsors."_

Carla shifted from one foot to the other. Damn train. Maybe she should have taken a bus after all.

_"Cars burn gas at a rapid rate,"_ the radio was saying. Carla froze. It was another Captain Nature announcement; his powerful voice blaring from the small handheld device. _"Fill your vehicle up with unleaded petrol. Help keep our air clean. And remember to rreeeecycle!"_ -Tant-dadda-dum-

For a moment, Carla held her breath and waited, listening to the silence after the ad.

Nothing. Captain Nature hadn't talked to her. Hadn't taunted her or tried to reveal any nasty inner truths. She sighed with relief, feeling her face go red with embarrassment. Paranoia. Just paranoia. For all she knew, the incident last night never really happened; just a stress induced illusion. It was all in her head.

_"And Carla: be careful. Somebody's watching you nearby,_" the radio added.

Carla blinked, then put a hand on her forehead. No, not again. Not now, when so many people were around. She couldn't have another freak out. Not now!

The hairs on her neck began to go up, and an uneasy feeling soon followed. It was like she had just walked through a static field; all her senses prickled, becoming eerily alert. Goose bumps began to work their way up her arms.

'What is this?' she thought, looking around and feeling a chill go down her spine.

The radio was right. Someone was watching her. She could sense it. Somewhere, among this crowd of early morning business workers, church goers and beach enthusiasts, someone was staring at her with an intensity she could feel.

'Oh god,' she thought, looking around but trying to make it look casual. 'Where? I can't see anyone?'

"Hey babe," a grating voice said. Carla spun around, clutching her purse tightly.

"Don't!" she cried.

The man that had come up behind her was standing with his hand outstretched. He must have been about to grab her shoulder.

"Hey, relax," he said. "I was just going to ask you something."

Carla stared at him, still holding her bag close. He was about her height, but he looked like a punk. Green, spiked hair. A nose ring. The big leather jacket and neck chain just completed the look. He smiled, and she grimaced when she saw his teeth. They'd been filed into sharps points, like some kind of... vampire.

"Wh-what do you want?" she asked.

The man kept smiling and started to move forward, forcing her to move backwards. He sniffed loudly; a thin trickle of blood beginning to leak out of his nose.

"Need some change," he said. "Got any spare?"

"No... no, I don't," she replied, shaking her head. She tried to push her way back further into the crowd, away from the spiky haired punk.

The man gave a small chuckle, then coughed loudly and spat onto the concrete. He'd attracted the attention of other commuters now; they looked at him with a mixture of fear and disgust. Some were whispering quietly to each other. No one offered to help the blonde girl he was cornering.

"Come on, babe. I know you got something. Everyone always got shrapnel jingling around. Spare a buck."

"I don't have anything!" she cried. "Why are you asking me?"

She kept moving back, and he kept following. In the distance, the loud honk of the train's horn echoed down the tunnel towards them. It would be at the platform soon.

"Why? Well, let's see..."

He barged a women out of the way with his shoulder, knocking her into some other bystanders.

"You're pretty," he said. "Probably sweet and kind. Look like the kind of girl who might actually care, you know? I just thought that out of all these _fucking tight arses..._"

He yelled the words and gestured widely with his arms. The people around him flinched and began to move away, mumbling and looking over their shoulders.

"Out of all these... anal retentive self-servers, I thought that you," he pointed a finger at her, grinning widely, "might actually help a guy out."

Carla stared at him, not knowing what to do or how to react. Why was he so persistent? Had Gorilla man given him cash to find and harass her? It seemed unlikely. Why wouldn't he just go away?

-ORN-OOOORRRRRRRRNNKKK-

The train was getting closer. She could hear the grinding of the wheels on the track now. Another minute and she could get on and escape.

"I don't have any money," she yelled, hoping the extra attention would deter him. "Please, leave me alone!"

The punk tilted his head, grinning, and slowly licked his teeth. Carla saw that his tongue had been forked, like a snake.

"Come on, baby. Give us the goods."

"_Get away from me_!" Carla screamed. She turned and began to push her way into the crowd on the edge of the platform. People had heard the train and were beginning to bunch up near the front, hoping to be the first inside so they could get a good seat. Carla had to barge with all her strength to get through.

"Where you going, baby?" the punk yelled. "Don't be like these assholes!"

"Get out of the way!" Carla cried, still trying to get through. As she pushed past, someone's elbow jutted out and caught her in the temple. Her vision flashed red and she had to close her eyes from the pain.

"Watch it, bitch," a voice said.

Anger consumed her. Didn't anyone care? Couldn't they see she was in trouble? In a crowd of over a hundred people, not one person tried to stop the punk or come to her rescue. All they cared about were their own appointments; no one was willing to get involved in conflict if it meant being late or dirtying their goddam Armani suits.

"_Fuck you!_" she cried, shoving back blindly.

She pushed forward, her head still throbbing from the elbow blow. Behind her, someone screamed and the crowd let out a shared gasp. All of a sudden, the gridlock of people broke and Carla was able to move.

'Thank god!' she thought, and ran towards across the platform towards the stairs. She had to get out of there.

The crowd was alive with movement and people shouting.

"Let me go! I gotta get down there!" a man yelled.

"It's too late," a teenage girl cried. "The train's coming!"

Carla ran up the stairs, wishing only for freedom and fresh air. Below, there was a screeching of brakes from the train, followed by a single long horn blow. It drowned out most of the screams.

-

Sunlight! Carla finally burst out of the subway and onto the street. She'd made it. But was the punk still following her? She turned to look down the stairs leading to the train platform. Nothing. No one had chased her.

Slightly relieved, she looked up the street and she saw a taxi coming her way. To hell with the traffic; there was no way she was going back into the subway. She quickly ran onto the road and held her hands up.

"Stop! Please!" she cried.

The cab hit its brakes hard and came to rest a metre away from her; a thin trail of blue smoke coming up from the back wheels. Inside, the driver pounded the horn angrily a few times, then leaned out the window. His skin was tanned, and he sported a thick moustache. Carla guessed he was of Italian origin.

"Jesus Christ, lady," he yelled, shaking his fist at her. "Haven't you ever heard of whistling? You coulda been freakin' roadkill!"

She ran around to the passenger's side door and tried the handle. It was locked.

"Please, I need to get out of here now."

"There ain't no way you riding up front. Get in the back, like everyone else."

Carla obeyed, opening the back door and climbing inside. She was instantly hit by a smell that was both familiar and disgusting, and had to hold her nose to stop from gagging. The driver saw her reaction in the rear view mirror and looked back apologetically.

"Ah, yeah, sorry 'bout that. Saturday nights are always big, see. Usually a chunderer or two. I was on the way to cleaners right now."

"That's ok," Carla choked. "I need to get to 'Icthy Fishy' on 23rd Bane Street."

"Well, if you think you can handle the smell, that's fine by me." He put the cab into gear and started to move on down the road. "So what's got you in such a razz?"

Carla took her hand off her nose, finding she was able to cope by breathing through her mouth.

"Someone was chasing me in the subway," she said. "A real creepy punk guy."

"Aahh. You poor thing. Gotta be careful, you know? There's a lot of crazy people in this world."

"Yeah..." Carla agreed, thinking back to the hand held radio and Captain Nature's mysterious warning. "You might be right."

-

She made it with a good five minutes to spare. The driver was kind enough to pull up right in front of her shop.

"Here you are, lady," he said, leaning back and smiling. "Thirteen fifty, that'll be."

Carla rummaged through her purse, but was unable to find anything bar Gorilla man's hundred dollar notes. Slightly sheepish, she passed it through the metal mesh that divided the cab.

"Um... that's all I have. Sorry," she said meekly.

The driver looked at the note for awhile, then waved it away.

"I don't got the change for that. This one's on me; you had to bear the smell, so I'll call us even. Just be careful 'round those subways, eh?"

"I'll try. Thanks so much!"

Carla hopped out of the cab onto the sidewalk, and watched as the driver put it into gear and sped away. Well, she'd made it in time, but would that make a difference to the boss? Somewhat nervous, she opened the door of the store and peeked inside.

Mrs. Icthyman was scowling at her from behind the counter.

"Oh, so you did decide to turn up, did you? I guess I won't have to scrub your name off the roster after all."

"I'm so sorry about yesterday," Carla said, her cheeks flushing hot. "I promise it won't happen again."

"You're damn right it won't. Get out back and put on your apron. And if you even screw up once, I'll know about it." Mrs. Icthyman turned away from her slightly flushed employee and went about stacking fresh fish into the display cabinet. Carla took the hint, and hurried out the back.

It wasn't as bad as she thought it might've been. She guessed that Icthyman had cooled down a lot over the night. Carla wondered why the old woman was still even running a business; she must have been at least sixty five and well past retiring age. She was well past the 'good employee relations' part of her life anyway.

Marie and Lisa were already in the back room, fully dressed in uniform and aprons. The chopping boards were well dusted with bread crumbs, and fresh pieces of assorted seafood lay reading for rolling. Carla noticed that a station had been prepared for her.

"Carla!" squealed Marie when she saw her blonde co-worker enter. "Oh my god, are you alright?"

Carla happily accepted the affection her friends offered, feeling almost overwhelmed by the hugging.

"I'm fine," she said. "I just had a... rough day yesterday."

"I heard Icthyman on the phone to you," Lisa said. "I was shaking after it, and it wasn't even me she was talking to!"

"We weren't sure if you'd be back today. I know I would have had second thoughts if I got abused like that," Marie nodded. "Were you really hung over? I didn't think we drank that much."

"Yeah. I can't even remember seeing you after eleven. Where'd you go?"

The girls looked at her expectantly, their features concerned under the streaks of flour.

"I felt a little sick," Carla muttered. "I don't want to talk about it right now. Icthyman is going to be watching me like a hawk today."

"I suppose you're right," Marie sighed. "We got your spot ready so you could start right away."

"Thank you."

The girls returned to their benches and began to work. Carla went over and put on her apron. She didn't like lying to her friends, but these weren't the sort of problems she wanted to trust with people that had cocktail gossip hours on a regular basis. And if Icthyman got even the slightest whiff of what she'd really been up too, the old trout would ring Ben in an instant, just to spite her.

"Customer. Someone at the counter, now."

'Speak of the devil,' Carla thought. Icthyman would rather stand there and stare at a customer then serve them; probably part of the reason why she was so angry yesterday. Heaven forbid she do any real work around here.

Carla sighed and quickly washed her hands in the sink. Today was going to be a long day.

-

It went faster then she expected, but only because Icthyman kept her busy with every foul chore that was available. When the counter turned quiet, Carla was directed to the bathroom, where she was told to 'scrub them till the tiles gleamed'.

She felt like leaving a nice layer of soap on the floor, in hope that the old women might have herself a little 'accident', but that would be too dangerous for the other girls. So Carla diligently completed all the tasks she was given, and was more then relieved when five o'clock finally ticked over.

"Finish up, ladies," Mrs. Icthyman barked. "I'm not paying you over time. Clean up your messes and get out of here."

Carla hung up her apron and gathered her things, eager to get home to Ben. She wasn't sure why, but she felt that she should be near him in the coming days; something about the look in his eyes, the idea that he'd lost faith in their relationship and possibly, her sanity. She just wanted to hold him, sit with him, kiss him until she was sure he believed her words.

Marie and Lisa were waiting outside, looking just as thankful that the day was over as she was.

"Are you coming for a wind-down drink?" Marie asked.

Carla shook her head.

"I have to get home. Ben's been upset lately, and I want to be with him."

"Awwww," Marie moaned. "Ben again? You're always dumping us for him. When are going to meet this guy anyway? You've been working here for nearly five months now and you _still_ haven't introduced us yet."

"I'm sorry. It's just that he's really busy with his apprenticeship. He's not too good in social situations either... I can't get him into a club at the best of times." Carla pulled a piece of hair sheepishly. "Maybe next time. Thanks anyway."

"Suit yourself," Lisa pouted. "We'll fill you in tomorrow if you miss anything," she added with a wink.

The girls parted, waving goodbye, and Carla waited on the sidewalk for a cab. Though the subway would be far faster, and the punk long gone, she still couldn't bring herself to take the train. Not tonight. She couldn't deal with any more added stress; who knows when that delicate mental tether she seemed to be walking would snap again.

A car came into view, and Carla squinted to see if it was a cab. It had the telltale light on the roof, and a familiar body shape to it, but as it drew closer she saw its paint job was nothing like any taxi she'd seen before. It was jungle green colour, with yellow tiger stripes on it. Either someone had pulled a prank on this poor driver, or he'd spent a ridiculous amount of money to 'pimp it out' for today's modern culture.

Shrugging, Carla raised her hand and took a step towards the road. She was almost embarrassed to think she'd be riding in something like that, but at the moment getting home was a higher priority.

"Taxi!" she called, just to further her chances of him stopping. The cab began to slow down and put its blinker on, indicating that he had indeed seen her. When it had finally pulled up beside her, she bent down to look in the driver's window. And froze.

The grinning face of Captain Nature greeted her.

"Good evening, Ma'am? Do you require assistance?" he said in his powerful Super Hero voice.

Carla could only stare at the cartoon-made-flesh. His mighty chin. His rippling chest beneath that skin tight latex body suit. The cape, draped elegantly over the back of the drivers seat. She wanted to step back from the cab, but her brain refused to let her move.

"Ma'am?" he asked again. "Are you experiencing verbal incapacity?"

'Not again,' Carla thought. Why here? Why now? First the TV, then the radio. Now he was in real life? Why was he hounding her?

"Excuse, madam, but can I be offering you a service or not?" Capture Nature said, but this time his voice was different. It had taken on an accent, much like...

Carla blinked, and found she was staring at a small, very dark skinned man. An Indian gentleman, it seemed, who was staring back at her and smiling with his perfectly white teeth. He was obviously confused at her lack of reaction. Captain Nature had vanished altogether.

"Oh, I'm... sorry. I must have blanked out there," she said, rubbing her head.

"It is not being a problem, madam, but I must keep moving." His accent fitted almost every Indian stereotype she'd ever heard. It was possible he might have been putting it on for effect. "Are you needing a ride or are you just the day dreaming?"

"I need a ride," she nodded, opening the back door. She told him her address, and he nodded, waving his hand around flamboyantly.

"That will not be of problem, madam," he said cheerily, and hit the accelerator so hard she was thrown back against the black and white leather seats.

Needless to say, she didn't make it all the way home. Not only was the cabby far too interested in telling her about the new accessories he'd recently had installed, he'd frightened three pedestrians and nearly wiped out a cyclist in the ten minutes Carla was in the cab.

When she finally saw the familiar box houses looming along the left side of the vehicle, she tapped on the clear Perspex window between them.

"I'll get out here," she called.

"But we are still being many minutes from your street!" he called back.

"That's okay; I feel like walking the rest of the way."

"Aaaaight," he grinned into the revision mirror, and hit the brake. The cab stopped almost instantly, and Carla was thrown against the Perspex.

"That will be costing you twenty five dollars, madam," he said.

"What?" cried Carla. It was almost twice the price of what the Italian cabby had charged. "Why so expensive?"

"Luxury tax," he answered. "I'm sure it is not being every day you get to ride in a beautiful car like this."

"Fine," Carla grumbled, and shoved him a note. He opened a box full of money, and promptly handed her the required change.

"Thank you," he smiled. "Come again."

Carla got out of the cab, and the driver sped off, almost side swiping a parked car on the way. She grimaced; so he really was putting the accent on. There's no way a true man of that culture would enjoy acting up to a stereotype that much. She should have offered him a piece of her mind.

But in reality, her mind had been elsewhere. Captain Nature had appeared once again. Why did she keep seeing him? Hearing him? How could a figment of one's imagination feel so... real?

Above her, the sky was beginning to darken. Black clouds were starting to drift in off the ocean; a murky green colour churning in their depths. Carla shivered. It was going to be a big storm, and it was coming in soon.

Looking around her, she suddenly realised she was standing next to the bench from yesterday. Across the road, the book store, grocer, and electronics shop had already closed; the sign's on their doors clearly stating the fact. The television in the electronics shop window, however, was still on.

Suddenly, Carla got the overwhelming desire to see what had become of her discarded trinkets. The chances of them still being there was slim; there were a lot of homeless around this area, and all would be quick to find and sell anything valuable they came across. Still, she just wanted to look...

Carefully crossing the road (she didn't trust that any green and yellow striped cabs wouldn't come hurtling back down the street), Carla hurried past the convenience store, glancing inside as she did. It was dark. Empty.  
The speakers above the door of the electronics store were working; she could hear soft Japanese words drifting from them. Sometimes they forgot to change the audio to English, and would just put subtitles on the screen instead. A quick glance revealed that the TV was playing the same cartoon as yesterday.

The dark mouth of the alleyway yawned at her. Carla stared down it, but no longer felt any urge to enter. It felt different now; sinister, like it was emanating a sense of malice. Even from the street, she could see that the bins had been knocked over and the contents scattered everywhere. There was no sign of her shopping bags. But there was something else.

Blood. A thin line, sprayed across the walls. Someone had found her possessions had fought over them it seemed. She saw no need to go any further.

Backing out onto the street, the sudden sound of static from the speakers startled her. The TV was playing a strange, cross-fading scene, where a man sat at a desk in a green lit room. Carla walked over and pressed her face against the glass.

It was creepy. The character was surrounded by electronic gear; microphones and communications equipment. As he spoke, his words were distorted, as if she was hearing them through an ancient radio. A chill ran down her spine; it sounded almost exactly like the voice of Gorilla man last night.

_"Yatuka hitori deatte, hitori jyarai,_" the speakers said. It was far softer then yesterday, though the words had no less of an eerie effect. Carla couldn't understand Japanese, but she could read the subtitles quite clearly.

_"He's one person, yet he's not_," they read. _"He can appear in front of any person who's lost their way... anytime, anywhere."_

Carla's eyes widened. What was this foreign cartoon about? Was it just a strange coincidence that they related so closely too her own enigmatic hallucinations? She pressed her face harder against the glass, wanting to learn more.

But before she could, the TV gave a violent flicker, and suddenly Captain Nature was on the screen. He stood proudly atop his pile of rubbish, grinning. Carla didn't flinch; in fact, she was getting used to this now.

_"Karla-san ie ni isoide. Umaku itte nai yo,_" the speakers said. It was Captain Nature's powerful Super Hero voice, but for some reason he was speaking Japanese. She looked at the bottom of the screen, waiting for the subtitles to appear.

_"Hurry home, Carla,_" she read. _"All is not well_."

Then the screen switched off.

Carla pulled away from the window. Home? Why? What could be happening at...

"Oh god," she breathed. "Ben!"

She clutched her purse and began to run down the street as a strong gust of wind picked up around her. A loud growl of thunder sounded from somewhere over her head. Was Ben in trouble? Had Gorilla man's 'they' found her house and punished _him_ because she wasn't there? A thousand possibilities ran through her head. All of them were bad.

"Please, Ben," she panted, "please: be okay."

-----

The first thing she saw was the bat. Placed with meticulous care against the frame of the living room doorway, she could only stand at the entrance and stare at it. The worn bandage wrapped around the handle. The disfiguring bend that gave it a dogs-leg appearance. And the bloodied chunks of flesh still sticking precariously to the end of it.

Carla put a hand to her mouth, trying to stifle the urge to gag. Inside, even the guilt monster seemed to be poised in horror; fearing what could have happened.

"B-ben?" she croaked, her voice sounding strange to her own ears.

No answer came. She began to move towards the living room doorway, unable to take her eyes off that bloodied bat. Its ominous bend mesmerized her.

"Ben?" she called again. "Ben... please..."

She stood in the door frame, not wanting to look into the room. Not wanting to take her eyes off the bat. Not wanting to confirm what she already knew. But human beings cannot resist such temptations. They always look. She had to look.

And when she did...

Ben was on the floor, his top half resting against the sofa so it appeared that he was sitting up. A pool of dark red flowed around him. His left leg was twisted at an odd angle; a splinter of bone piercing his jeans. His right arm was similarly disjointed.

"Oh god... oh god, Ben," Carla whimpered behind her hand. She took a step into the room. Inside, she somehow held a sliver of hope that he could somehow be alive.

But that was unlikely. His face was turned towards her, and she could see the damage that had been done. The whole side of his skull had been caved in, exposing a mess of blood clots and pulpy brain matter. All of his front teeth had been smashed out; probably now resting in the back of his throat, or somewhere on the floor.

He was well and truly dead.

Carla couldn't move anymore. She couldn't deal with it. Something inside her head was about to snap: she could feel it tightening, straining like an overworked elastic band. She had to scream.

It was building up inside, strong, almost painful. But if she let it out, there'd be no return. Her sanity would break, and she'd be lost forever. Drifting in an endless sea of her own nightmares.

On the other side of the room, the blood spattered TV flickered into life. Carla already knew who was on the screen.

_"Captain Nature says: when beating a person to death with a blunt object, always remember to vary your striking zones,"_ the grinning, green-clad Super Hero said. _"That way it'll look like the work of a common thug rather then a calculated killer."_

Carla stared at the cartoon with a rage unlike any she'd ever felt. Captain Nature just continued to strike his mainly pose atop that rubbish pile, his proud figure began to blur through her tears.

_"You!"_ she screamed. "You did this. You killed Ben. How? _Why?"_

_"No,_ you _killed him,_" his mighty voice replied. _"You killed him with your lies and your betrayal. This would have never happened if you'd just remained faithful."_

Captain Nature leaned towards the screen, his manly chin almost taking up the entire view.

_"How does it feel?_" he said. "_How does it feel to know you're a murderer?"_

Something in Carla's head snapped.

"NO! I didn't mean to. I didn't want this to happen! I'm sorry, Ben, I'm so sorry. I'm -"

-----

Carla's blinked. She was still standing in the hallway outside her flat. Her hand was millimetres away from the door handle.

"J-jesus Christ," she said, feeling a trickle of sweat creep down her forehead and into her eyes. "What the hell was that?"

Her hand was shaking uncontrollably. Her whole body was awash in hot and cold chills. It had been so real. She could still see everything in her head; as vivid and clear as if it had really happened.

The twisted, bloody baseball bat. Ben's shattered limbs and collapsed face. Captain Nature, leering at her. She'd actually _felt_ her mind break at that final, overwhelming moment. Though... everything seemed intact now.

'Please, don't let it be true,' she prayed, reaching for the door knob. She had to use both hands in the end, just to keep herself steady.

Opening it just a crack, Carla nervously peered into her apartment. If the bat was there, she was ready to run. She didn't want to experience that twice in one night; she'd just go to the police and probably fall apart in her grief.

But the bat wasn't there. Her apartment hallway was bare.

"Thank god," she whispered. Carla opened the door fully and entered, closing it with a slam behind her.

"Ben?" she called. "Ben, are you home?"

There was no answer. Perhaps he was still out looking for a councillor. Or maybe he'd fallen asleep. She walked to the living room door frame and looked inside.

Ben was sitting on the couch, in almost the exact same position he'd been in yesterday. The TV was off, however, and he was staring intently at his hands.

"Oh my god, Ben!!" she cried, feeling her whole body fill with relief. She rushed over and fell at his feet, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. "Thank goodness you're alright. I had this terrible feeling that something had happened to you."

He was still looking down, so she went under to give him a kiss. He turned his face away.

"Ben?" she said, confused. "What's the matter? Are you ok?"

He shook his head, still not looking at her.

"What? What is it?"

Slowly, he opened his hands, and displayed what he was holding. A pink mobile phone. Carla's mobile phone. Her blood ran cold in her veins. 

Gorilla man.

The name went screaming through her mind in a red hot flash of painful reminiscence. She'd thrown the phone yesterday, and it had fallen behind the bed. She hadn't even remembered to pick it up this morning.

"Oh no... Ben," she gasped. "W-what... happened?" She already knew what he was going to say.

"You got a phone call," he said sadly. "I was about to go into the city, when I heard it ring."

"Who...?" Carla choked, but was unable to get the rest out.

"It took me awhile to find it. I didn't expect your phone to be under the bed. But it kept ringing the whole time. When I finally answered it, there was only silence."

Carla's hearted jumped. Could Gorilla man have heard a male voice and feared it was the police? She held her breath, daring not to hope.

"I was just about to hang up," he continued, "when a man spoke. He asked who I was. I told him my name. I returned the question, but he refused to answer."

"A-and?" Carla asked.

"And he told me everything."

Carla felt her face flush hot, and her nails bite piercingly into her palms.

"He told me you met him Friday night at a bar. That he'd bought you a drink and taken you back to his hotel. He said I should know that you... that you..."

His face contorted, as if he was unable to even think about what he'd heard.

"What?" whispered Carla.

"He said I should know that you fuck like a minx. And that you'd stolen money and a card from him in the morning." Ben finally looked at her, his eyes red with tears. "He wants it all back. Or he's going to find us."

Carla fell back onto the carpet, drawing her knees up under her chin. The numbness from this morning began to spread to all parts of her body. Everything had finally come out. She should have been devastated, but instead she felt... nothing. Ben knew now. Knew about Gorilla man. Knew that she'd betrayed him. Knew that she was no better then a petty thief.

"I'm sorry, Ben," she said quietly. "I'm so sorry."

"How long?" he asked. "How long have you been doing this for?"

"About... a month," Carla sniffed.

"So that's why you've been acting so strange? Why you've been so... unstable lately? How many times? Were they all with that man?"

"No..." she answered, looking at the floor. "He was only once. I'm so sorry."

Ben was silent, staring at the mobile in his hand.

"We'll get help," he said at last. "There must be a reason for this. We can work it out. The councillor will give us a way to figure out what's wrong."

"What?" Carla asked, not really believing what she was hearing. "What do you mean??"

"We just need help. People in relationships go through things like this all the time. There'll be an answer; there always is. We can change things."

The numbness inside her began to change, began to give way to a more powerful emotion. Anger.

What was wrong with him? Ben had finally found out that the girl he loved was unfaithful too him... and he just wanted to work things out? Why wasn't he furious? Why wasn't he screaming at her? What did she have to do to get some reaction from him?

"I don't think a professional can help us," Carla said, her voice low and toneless.

"What are you talking about?" There was a note of desperation in his voice that irritated her. _He_ was supposed to be the strong one. "This is all because of a lack of communication. We just need to talk with someone."

"NO!" she yelled. Carla stood up over him, her fists clenched. "I won't go."

"Carla..." he started.

_"Why won't you do something?!_" she screamed. "Why are you always trying to be so kind? It's not natural. Don't you ever get angry? I _cheated on you!_ I've been with other men! And you just sit there and say we should talk to someone? What is _wrong with you?"_

Behind her, Carla heard a click and a hiss of static. The TV had turned on.

Ben remained sitting on the sofa, looking up at her. His face was unreadable.

"That's... what this is all about?" he asked.

"YES!... no... I don't know!" Carla began to storm back and forth in the room. The hiss of the TV static grew louder, blurring her thoughts. "It's part of it... but there's so much more to it, Ben! It's bigger then just us."

"I don't understand..." he said. "You're unhappy in our relationship because... I'm too kind to you?!"

_"Captain Nature says: when sabotaging a relationship, make the reasons as inexplicable as -"_

"SHUT UP!" screamed Carla, pointing behind her without looking. "I don't need your help at the moment."

Ben looked at the TV, then back at her. Then back at the TV.

"Carla... who are you talking too? The television isn't on."

Carla turned away from him, cradling her head in her hands. She didn't answer. Ben watched her, perplexed, before getting up from the sofa. He walked over and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Carla. You're not well. We need to get you help."

"I know," she sniffed. "I don't know what's wrong with me." She turned and wrapped her arms around his chest. "I'm so sorry. I really am. But this is just... the way I feel."

Ben rested his mouth on her hair. She could feel his light, warm breathes; his heart, pounding against his chest. He was shaking slightly as well.

"Do you... want me to move out?" he asked eventually.

"No!" she answered. "No; I can't lose you. I don't know what I'd do without you in my life. I just... I can't..."

Ben squeezed her shoulders, then released her. He walked to the living room doorway and stopped in the frame.

"I'm going out," he said without looking back. "It'll give us both time to think."

"Oh... okay..." Carla sniffed. "Be careful. And..." she paused, feeling her stomach churn uncertainly, "and please... come back, ok? Maybe we _should_ talk it over. Just a little."

He didn't answer.

"Promise me?" she urged.

Ben walked into the hallway and disappeared from view. A second later, she heard the door slam. He had gone. Carla stood with her arms wrapped around her body, feeling cold and alone all of sudden. Had she gone too far? Could things be beyond salvation now?

_"Captain Nature says_ -" the TV began.

"Fuck you," she replied, and left the room.

There was a flash of lightning outside, followed by a loud grumble of thunder. Carla heard the TV static crackle for a few more seconds, before clicking off and going silent.

-----

Carla lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The lamp sitting on the side table illuminated the room in a rusty orange colour, and she could see the dust and spider webs that had gathered in the corners.

'I really have to clean one day,' she thought.

Outside, lightning continued to flash on occasions, and thunder growled like a wounded animal. Carla turned her head to watch the rain sliding down the window panes. Usually she loved storms; the way the water droplets sounded against anything made of metal, the cool dampness that seemed to settle over the city. But tonight she couldn't bring herself to enjoy anything.

Her eyes flicked up to the wrist beside her face. '9:45' the watch read. Ben was late.

He never stayed out past nine as a rule, and even if he did he always called. Carla couldn't stop the painful questions from running through her mind. Had something happened to him? Could he really be that angry at her? Was she even sure that he'd come back... at all?

From the lounge room, she heard a distinctive 'click' and the loud hiss of static. It only lasted a second before there was another click and silence returned. Carla winced her eyes shut and curled her legs up to her chest. Captain Nature. He'd been doing that to the TV at regular intervals all night; trying to unnerve her, trying to make her feel that the last thread of sanity she clung to was slipping away even faster. Why wouldn't he just go away?

She looked at the wrist watch, now held only inches from her nose. '9:47'. Time felt as if it was crawling. Beyond her bedroom window, a strong gust of wind blew the rain harder into the glass, and a grumble of thunder signalled that the storm was far from over. Carla sniffed and rubbed her eyes, feeling the rough, red burning of tiredness beneath their lids. Despite her worries, the stress she'd been under all day had taken its toll. She was finding it hard to remain awake any longer.

The soft patter of raindrops, coupled with the warm air of her bedroom, began to work their charm, and slowly she felt the darkness of sleep creeping up on her. She would have welcomed it, had she not been so afraid of the dreamworld that lay beyond.

"Ben..." she sighed, curling up tighter. Then her body relaxed.


	4. Carla's Side – Cerebral Showdown

**Carla's Side - Cerebral Showdown**

A room-shaking blast of thunder made her sit upright in bed. It'd been so strong she swore she felt the bed move slightly. Carla looked to the window, and saw that the rain had stopped. And more then that; all the lights were out. Odd, she hadn't remembered turning off the lamp before falling asleep.

Confused and still a little sleep-dazed, she reached over to her bedside table and fumbled for the lamp switch. Maybe there'd been a power surge? That usually made the circuit breaker blow, and Ben had to go and turn everything back on at the fuse box. Finding the switch, she flicked it once, but when no light came she hit it again. Nothing happened. It must have been a black out.

She swung her body off the bed and sat on its edge, rubbing her eyes. Damn, she had good food in the fridge too. She hoped this wouldn't last long. Carla glanced at her watch, trying to make it out in the muggy gloom. '12:03' she finally made out. 

12:03, and Ben wasn't in bed beside her. She felt an icy chill go down her spine. Something had happened, she knew it. Something had gone terribly wrong. She had to get out of bed and call the police, get a search out for him. Maybe he'd just gotten too drunk and couldn't make it home. Maybe he was at a friend's house. Maybe his phone had gone flat. Maybe -

A flash of lightning illuminated the room, and Carla finally saw the figure standing in the door frame. She cried out and climbed back onto the bed, grabbing a pillow to hold in front of her protectively.

"Who's there?" she choked, peering over her down-filled barrier. The figure didn't move. Though it was dark again, she could see the person outlined quite clearly against the hallway. It was tall... lean... in fact it looked like a man. Carla felt a wave of relief wash over her, followed by a sudden embarrassment.

"Ben!" she called. "Ben, where have you been?" She threw the pillow to the side and moved to the end of the bed. "I've been worried."

The figure didn't answer, just continued to stand in the doorway. Carla felt her relieved smile begin to fade, and uncertainty started to fill her stomach again. Something was wrong. Why wasn't he moving? Or saying anything? Was he hurt? In the darkness of the hallway, she couldn't make out any features on his face at all.

"B-benny?" she said. "Come on, you're scaring me."

She saw the figure's head begin to tilt slowly to one side.

"...Ben?"

"You're a liar," the figure croaked. It was Ben's voice, but it sounded hoarse. Carla recoiled back up the bed at the sound of it.

"B-ben, I'm sorry!" she gasped. "Really, I -"

"You're a liar," he rasped again. He put out his hands towards her, and took one awkward, loping step. "I loved you. I trusted you."

"_I'm sorry_!" she screamed, feeling hot tears on her cheeks. "Please, stop!"

Ben took another step towards her. The weak light coming from the window was making his figure more defined, but she still couldn't see his face.

"You hurt me," he wheezed. "You hurt me so badly that I... that I had to hurt myself. Had to make your pain... go away."

"What??" she cried. "Ben, what do you mean? What did you -"

"_Look_ what you made me do," he said, stepping closer to the window. He brought his hands up towards his face, and as if on cue, lightning flashed and filled the room with white. Carla screamed.

In the light from the window, only half of Ben's face was illuminated, but it was enough. All his skin was gone. Instead, there was only red, veiny meat and sinewy muscles. His skeletal, lipless teeth grinned at her, but worst of all were the eyes. There were no lids, so they bulged out of their sockets in a horrifying, bug-eyed manner. Carla couldn't move as she watched him run his hands down the bloody flesh of his cheeks.

"You made me do it," his voice croaked. "You made me _eat my own face!_"

-----

Carla sat bolt upright on the bed, gasping for breath. Her whole body was drenched in sweat. The room was still dark, but rain was once again pattering on the window. Putting a hand on her chest, she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to focus on calming down.

Another freak out? A dream? It couldn't have been... it was so real, just like the last one. Ben had really... _been_ there, his face devoid of skin and expression. Except for that horrid, skeletal grin.

But what about now? Was this the real world? Or another dream? Cautiously, she opened one eye and peeked down at her wristwatch. '12.05' it read.

"God, no," she whimpered. Her heart pounding, she opened both eyes and looked to the doorway.

A dark figure stood in its frame.

"No!" she screamed. "Not again! Not again!" Terrified, she began to pull at the bed, trying to create a shield of pillows and blankets between her and the horror at the door. "Leave me alone!"

"Carla?" the figure said. It left the door and began to walk towards her.

"Stay back!" she screamed, throwing a pillow at it. "I don't want to see your face again!"

"Carla, what the hell?" The figure moved quickly and sat on the end of the bed. She heard a click, and suddenly Ben's concerned face was lit up. He was holding a flashlight under his chin.

"Carla, it's just me!" he said, confusion in his voice. "I thought you could have guessed that. Who else would it be?"

Carla refused to move from behind her blanket barricade for a few moments, then slowly lowered it so she could look at him clearly.

"B-ben? Is it you? The real you? You haven't... hurt... yourself this time?"

Ben moved the light away from his face and rested it on the bed. It shone most of its beam on the far wall, but there was enough light to see him clearly in.

"Yes, it's me. The power's out because of the storm, so I was trying to go about quietly with the flashlight. I'm not hurt though. What do you mean?"

Carla screwed up her face and put her hands over her eyes.

"I... I... I think I just had a bad dream," she answered. She pushed away the pillows and came down the bed towards him, carefully reaching out a shaky hand. He took it in his. His skin was warm.

"Why are you back so late?" she asked, not releasing the hand, but instead giving it a hard squeeze.

Ben looked slightly sheepish and turned his head so the light wasn't on his face.

"I was... out," he said. "I needed time to myself. I met some people who had experience in our kind of situation, and we got to talking. Time just slipped away. I'm sorry I didn't call."

Carla's tension began to ease, and she relaxed her grip on his hand. At least that was one question answered satisfactorily.

"I see," she sighed. "Well, I guess you probably have a lot to say. It's late; why don't you come to bed and we'll talk about it in the morning." She gave his hand an encouraging tug, but instead found he resisted her. She looked at him inquisitively.

"I'm not staying," he said bluntly. Carla squeezed his hand tightly again.

"What? Why?"

Almost irritably, he shook her off and put his hands in his lap.

"I'm not staying. I can't. The people I talked with... they agreed with you." He shook his head sadly. "They said that counselling rarely helps. It might prolong the relationship a little longer. Maybe as long as a year. But the problems are always there, and trust is never fully regained."

Carla felt her skin give way to a wave of chilled goosebumps under the cold layer of sweat. This was not what she'd hoped to achieve from her earlier outburst.

"Ben! That's not what I meant! I was just... angry. I wasn't thinking straight. You said there's a way, that we might be able to -"

Ben shook his head again.

"Even if we do get help, it won't be the same. Something has broken," he put his fist on his chest. "Something in here has broken. I can't... I won't be able to  
feel the same way about you again, no matter how many problems we work through."

"Ben..." she choked, tears already flowing from her eyes. "But..."

"I'm going to go away for awhile," he said. His voice had taken on a flat, emotionless tone. It only made his statements more painful for her to hear. "I've arranged to live with my sister for awhile."

"How... how long is awhile?" she sobbed.

"However long it takes for us to decide what to do next," he answered.

Carla looked on the floor, and for the first time saw the already packed suitcase sitting near the door. He must have been using the flashlight to gather his stuff while she slept.

"You're leaving... right now?" she asked in disbelief.

"Yes. I'm just taking a few necessities for now. A van will come by later this week to get the rest of my stuff."

"Were you even going to say goodbye?" she sniffed bitterly.

"... I was debating on how to do that when you woke up," he said softly. "Trust me: I wasn't going to just walk out of here. Not with the way you've been lately."

Carla fought off the almost overwhelming urge to throw her arms around him; it would have been a pointless gesture. Ben's mood at the moment suggested he wanted anything but affection from her. But inside, she couldn't help but notice something stirring.

Ben was taking charge. He was no longer pandering to her feelings or trying to come across as the nice guy. For once he was showing some frustration and feeling... and she couldn't help but feel attracted to him for it.

"Please, don't go," she said, wiping her face and moving closer to him on the bed. "Not tonight. Just stay with me a little longer."

Ben got up and moved to the doorway. He bent down and picked up the suitcase, his back towards her.

"I have to," he said coldly. "I have a cab waiting for me outside."

He began to disappear down the hallway, and Carla felt a sudden rise of panic in her throat. He was serious. He was really leaving her. Right now. Somehow the whole time they had been talking she hadn't believed he'd go, but he was walking towards the entrance as that moment.

Nothing was going right. She couldn't lose Ben; he was her rock in this world. He was the only thing she really cared about, and without him there was no telling what could happen to her state of mind. He couldn't leave. He had to stay.

"Ben!" she cried. "Ben, wait!"

She leapt off the bed and ran into the hallway. Ben was already at the front door.

"Ben, don't leave me! I need you!"

She ran down the hallway, but her foot caught on a small throw rug and she fell in a tangled heap on the floor. She could only lie there, sobbing and reaching towards Ben with one pleading hand.

"Please..." she whimpered.

Ben didn't turn to look at her. He stood in the entrance and stared into the blackness beyond.

"I'm sorry, Carla. I'll call you in a few days," he said. Then he stepped out of the apartment and closed the door behind him.

-----

Carla lay on the floor, crying and holding the rug close to her chest. Ben had gone. He'd finally found his strength and emotion... and had used it to rid himself of the source of his pain. Her. It had all gone horribly wrong, but then she was unsure of how she'd hoped it would turn out anyway.

Outside, there was a faint series of honks. Carla looked back at the bedroom from her spot on the hallway floor. Was that Ben's cab? Maybe she could scream at it to leave before he got out of the building; that way he'd be forced to come back.

Untangling the rug from her legs, she scrambled up and ran through the bedroom door. Rain still pounded against the window, but that was the least of her worries. Wind roared into the room as she slammed it open, and her nightwear was soaked almost instantly.

On the street below, a single car waited with its headlights on and engine running. Carla leaned out into the tempest, trying to see. It was dark, but even so she could still make out the pattern on the cab. She gasped in dismay.

Tiger stripes. The colours weren't visible, but she knew they were green and yellow. She couldn't mistake that familiar shaped body kit either.

'No,' she thought. 'Not that cab. Anything but that cab. It's not... it's not real!'

She wasn't sure why she felt that, she just did. The right side door was already open, and somebody was getting in. It was Ben. She was too late to stop him... but she was going to try.

"_Beeeennn!_" she screamed into the wind. "_Beeenn. Don't go. Don't get in the cab. It's not safe!"_

He didn't look up. The howling gale probably drowned out her voice. Instead, he entered the passenger's seat and closed the door. Carla could only stare despairingly down through the rain, powerless.

'Not that cab,' she thought. As she watched, the driver's side window rolled down, and a face poked out. If she hadn't spent all day being assaulted by the same relentless phantom, she might have been surprised. But she wasn't.

The big, manly chin was the main give away. Captain Nature leaned out of the cab, grinning up at her. With one hand, he gave a quick salute from the side of his head, and then disappeared back inside. The car was thrown quickly into gear, and Carla watched it speed down the street and away.

She slumped over the sill, feeling helpless and alone. She couldn't stop him. And now Captain Nature had taken Ben in his cab, taken him... where? A loud grumble of thunder made her jump in fright, and she quickly withdrew back inside and closed the window.

The bedroom carpet was soaked, and her night clothes were now causing savage chills to race through her body. Ben. What had she done? It had all gone so wrong. Sadly, she shuffled her way through the dark towards the bathroom, arms wrapped tightly across her chest. What was she going to do now?

Without Ben, Gorilla man could track her down at anytime. She had no one to protect her, or to tell her everything was going to be ok. As she dried her hair and clothes with a towel, there was a flash of light from outside, and she caught a glimpse of herself in the cabinet mirror.

Pale skin. Red eyes. Hair tangled like some crazed street derelict. In a word: pathetic. She was a hopeless specimen of human failure, the end result of a lifetime of co-dependency. She leaned close to the mirror and stared at her silhouette through narrow eyes.

"Well, what now?" she said bitterly. "You got yourself into this mess; what are you going to do about it?"

In answer to her question, there was a 'click' from the lounge room, and the familiar hiss of static. Carla felt her hands clench tightly, her mouth drawing into a thin line. Him. Even when the power was out, he found a way to torment her. Why? It was all his doing; this constant paranoia inside her head. She was going to end it, right now.

Leaving the bathroom, she crept down the darkened hallway towards the lounge. A white light was flickering through the doorway, and the hiss of static grew louder. It began to cause a pain above her right temple, boring into her skull, and she had to put a hand on it to try and relieve the building pressure.

As she neared the doorway, the static suddenly stopped, and the familiar tune of Captain Nature's many environment safety ads began to play. She recognised it as the 'hybrid car' promotion.

_"Buying a hybrid car will not only cut down on your fuel costs, it can reduce harmful gas emissions by 75!"_ the TV blared. Carla entered the room and glared at the screen, watching the muscular figure zip about. He was in a green and yellow striped car that had a big grin on its fender. The other cars around it were panting and choking on clouds of black fumes.

_"Help do your part in keeping our air clean,_" he beamed. Carla sat on the sofa and crossed her legs, waiting for the insufferable ad to finish. After this, she'd be happy if she never saw television again.

The green figure flew across the screen and landed on that oh-so-familiar pile of festering rubbish. Striking a manly pose, smiling that dazzling smile, he pointed a finger towards his devoted viewers and said the signing off words for all of his messages.

_"And remember; rrrreeeeecycle!!" _-Tant-dadda-dum-

Carla waited. As expected, the cartoon hero didn't disappear from the screen. He stood atop his pungent refuse, cape flapping in the breeze. How powerful he looked.

"We have to talk," Carla said bluntly. She wagged a finger between herself and the television. "Just you and me."

Captain Nature's otherwise unseeing gaze focused on her, and his broad grin grew wider.

_"I thought you'd never ask,_" he beamed.

Carla closed her eyes and breathed slowly. What happened next could mean the difference between regaining the tenuous grip she had on her own mind, and losing it forever. She had to be strong. Had to be sure. And more importantly; not let a figment of her own imagination drive her further into madness. She could beat this thing. As Ben said, "there's always a way".

"Why are you here?" she asked, holding the cartoon in a steely gaze. "What did I do to make you..." she paused, unable to find the word to describe it. Was he real? Alive? Tangible in any way? In the end, she left it, because if her suspicions were correct he'd know what she meant without her saying it.

"Who _are_ you?" she said coldly.

Captain Nature grinned. His muscles bulged effortlessly beneath the skin tight costume. His white, triangle eyes stared back at her from behind that black mask. He really did appear to enjoy her torment.

_"Its really quite simple,_" he said finally. _"When humans endure a certain level of stress - either due to a single, traumatic event, or over a prolonged period of time - things can... happen, in their minds. In your case, it could have happened further back then you are able to remember."_

Carla tilted her head, her face contorted in angry confusion.

"What? What happened to me? I don't understand."

Captain Nature ignored her.

_"When someone's mind reaches a point where it can no longer deal with the world around it, it has to find a way to escape. Sometimes it will break down completely, leaving the person in a gibbering mess. Sometimes it will merely go blank, and one might awaken several months later in a hospital, remembering nothing. But other times..."_ Captain Nature leant towards the screen, his white triangle eyes squinted. _"Sometimes... it will fragment. The mind will wall up the unstable part of itself, effectively removing it from a person's psyche._" He drew back again, putting a hand thoughtfully under that manly chin. _"In theory, someone could live out the rest of their days quite happily without even realising how close they came to meltdown."_

Carla continued to stare at the television. He was intentionally taking the long way around answering her question, drawing out her fears. It was a cruel and sadistic speech, but she allowed him to continue. She suspected he would ignore any further interruptions anyway.

_"You came close to one such event."_ Captain Nature thrust an accusing finger towards her. _"At some point, perhaps when you were a child, something damaged your 'sensitive mind', and it had to perform an emergency intervention in order to protect you. And so far, you've gone on with your life, none the wiser. Until..."_ His dazzling smile took on an evil, smirking quality. _"Until now."_

"Get to the point!" Carla screamed. She was sick of feeling toyed with. Especially by someone she had convinced herself didn't exist. Besides that, the pain behind her temple was getting unbearable. "What does it all mean?"

_"You may have saved yourself from a complete breakdown, but your personality did not go unaffected,_" Captain Nature said, his voice tinged with a hint of malice. _"All through your school years you had trouble interacting with people. Always finding faults with them, always unable to trust in their friendship. You couldn't even handle your own family; running away from home at sixteen. And then, you met Ben."_

Carla's eyes almost instantly filled with tears, and pain tore into her chest. Ben. She'd adored him from the moment they'd met. And now...

Captain Nature seemed to see her sorrow and chuckled in his powerful, confident manner.

_"Ben was your scapegoat. Your anchor. He helped you make decisions in life and gave you direction. He gave you the stability you felt you'd been missing for so long. When he was around, you had a way to keep that damaged fragment locked away in your mind and unable to cause harm... but it seems you didn't wish that to last."_

Carla gulped, holding back the torrent of emotions that wanted to come pouring out of her. She was not going to let him have the satisfaction.

_"Ben stopped actively guiding your life. Mentally, you began to lose your desire for him. You needed something else to look after you; a stronger, more dominant personality that could tell you how to live. And you sought that... through your sordid little 'affairs'."_

"That's not true!" Carla cried. "None of it's true! I care for Ben very deeply; he's my best friend and my closest lover."

_"But are you_ 'in' _love with him?"_

Carla paused.

"I... I..." she stuttered. The pain in her temple lanced through to the back of her eye, making her slam a fist against her forehead. "He always supported me in everything I did! I never doubted his love for _me_. Those affairs were just..."

_"Out of your control?_" Captain Nature asked inquisitively. "_Sometimes the mind knows better then the heart when it comes to its own safety. Had you parted from Ben and found someone else, none of this may have ever happened. But as it was, you chose to stay with him. Tried to make it work and just bear the strange feelings and behaviours that were occurring more frequently."_

"So what..." Carla sobbed. "So what if I did. I couldn't just leave him... it's been so long."

_"You jeopardised your own sanity!_" Captain Nature almost bellowed. "_The guilt you felt from the betrayals, the constant fear of being caught; it all builds up. Your mind could not maintain the barrier between the fragments when you were always in such a state. Everything has been slowly falling apart, and if your mind hadn't acted once again, you might have broken down a lot sooner."_

"What?" Carla choked. "What did I do?"

Captain Nature beamed, and stretched his arms out widely in a glorified hero's stance.

_"You created me,_" he grinned. "_I am your new scapegoat .On the brink of losing it all, you found a figure that could give you what you needed. Someone strong, someone confident, who could protect you and guide you and lead you. What better person to do that,_" he turned his face to the side and pumped his biceps in classic body builder style, "_then a Super Hero!_" -Tant-dadda-dum-

Carla gaped, open mouthed in disbelief. How was she supposed to take this? Her own mind was fighting her for dominance... over itself? The pain, now in both temples, throbbed and pulsed angrily. She was beginning to feel light and her thoughts becoming blurry.

"Why..." she mumbled. "How did it come to this?"

_"That's no longer important,_" Captain Nature said gently. "_I'm here now. Now you can be safe, and we can work on restoring your mind._" His masked face suddenly changed, and for the first time he lost the dazzling smile and looked grim. It made a chill course down Carla's spine. "_But to do that, there are many things that have to be... taken care of first."_

Carla didn't like the new tone her imaginary companion had adopted. It scared her. She bit her lip tenuously.

"What... what things?" she asked, her voice wavering.

_"We need to be rid of the source of your problems,_" Captain Nature answered. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. "_The things that cause you the most anxiety, the objects of your stress: they must be removed from your life completely._"

"And they are...?" Carla dared to ask.

"_The first is your work. We can't have you worrying about such meaningless things. Icthyman can no longer hold power over you. The other..."_ His eyes bore into her, almost forcing her to remain locked in his unblinking gaze. "_Is Ben."_

Carla's blood froze.

"W-what? Why?"

"_I put a lot of effort into making him leave; we don't need him coming back and endangering your sanity any further. He must be removed from the picture... permanently._"

Anger flashed through Carla's mind in a surge of painful redness. It was him. He'd made Ben leave. She'd known it all along.

"Why??" she screamed, getting up off the sofa. "Why did you do it? Why have you ruined my life and my relationship?" She wiped some tears off her cheek and choked. "Why don't you go away... I don't need you."

"_We've been through this: you do need me. Whether you choose to admit it or not, you wanted to be free of Ben, and I've just made that happen. I make the decisions you are too weak to make on your own, and that's the way it will be from now on."_ His narrowed eyes glared at her, his grim, thin-lipped smile bordered on a sneer. _"Ben must not come back."_

Carla's thoughts went back to the green and yellow striped cab she'd seen parked on the street below, just minutes earlier. Recalled the big chinned driver and his mocking salute. She stared daggers at the screen.

"What have you done?" she hissed. "Where have you taken him?"

The dazzling smile returned, but the narrowed eyes remained.

"_I haven't done anything... yet. But that depends on how compliant you're going to be. If you attempt to contact him, or beg him to return... I may have to take matters to the next level."_

Carla fell back onto the sofa, the pain in her temples making her grind her teeth in irritation. He was _threatening_ her now? A cartoon? It was crazy.

"What can _you_ do?" she said, not looking up at the TV. "You're not even real... just a hallucination, something my mind made up."

_"I can do plenty,_" he growled, "_if you force me too. I'm all you need now, and I will not just be 'sent away'."_

Carla hung her head, defeated. It was hopeless. Whatever her sick, damaged mind had invented, it was too hard for her to overcome. She understood too little about how to deal with something like this. It was all a wicked turn of events.

Though Captain Nature claimed to be just a part of her conscious, there seemed to be no part of her in him. She sensed his malevolence and unpredictability. If she tried to get Ben back, she could just... feel... that something bad would happen.

As much as it would break her heart, she knew she had to stay away from him. For his own safety. But... that alone would be a problem.

As hurt as Ben was, she had no doubt he still loved her. If she told him to stay away, or didn't answer the phone at all, he would know something was wrong. And then there'd be no stopping him. He'd tear down walls to get back and help her, and that could be his end. She couldn't allow it.

Pain pounded against her skull, screaming at her to come up with a solution. She had to make sure he never came near her, that he'd forget all about her. There had to be a way, had to be _something_...

A great sadness washed over her as realisation dawned. There was a way to do it... but it would mean she'd have to be willing to give up everything. Carla sniffed and cradled her head in despair.

Could she do it? Was she strong enough? She had nothing much left in her life to look forward to anyway, and besides... it hadn't been the first time the idea had crossed her mind this month. Would anyone really care?

All her friends - her co-workers, what remained of her high school classes and half-hearted sporting teams - they were all superficial relationships. Sure, they might mourn her loss, but would any of them really _care_? She doubted it. And her family? Well, she'd lost contact with them almost four years ago now. They lived in a whole other city. To them, she was probably dead already.

Yes, she could do it, she resolved, feeling a thin knot of determination forming in her stomach. She would do it, if only to be free of the guilt, the torment and the pain. But also... for Ben.

Ben. She wished she could see him, just one last time. Tell her how sorry she really was and show him the appreciation he deserved. But it was too late now. Too late for a lot of things. She bit her lip and tightened her hands into fists. It had to be done.

"I can stop you," she said softly.

"_What?_" the hero smirked. "_How do you propose to do that?_"

Carla laughed softly and shook her head, feeling hot tears on her cheeks.

"It's really quite simple," she sighed. "You're a part of me. You'll be with me where ever I go, and influence all the things I do, whether I want you to or not. As long as I'm around, Ben and anyone else I care for could be in danger."

_"It doesn't have to be that way. You'd find it a lot easier to work with me then against me."_

Carla shook her head again and let out a single, choked sob.

"I won't let you control me. If it means choosing between that, and being a threat to the ones I love for the rest of my life..." she gave the screen an icy glare through her tears, "I'd rather not be living at all."

Captain Nature's smirk twitched for the briefest of instances, and then slowly began to fade. His masked eyes narrowed to thin slits.

_"What... are you saying?"_

Carla rested her forehead in the palm of one hand and gave a shrug.

"What does it matter to me anymore? You've taken away the only person that really cared for me. You're planning to take away everything important left in my life. You're holding my sanity for ransom from within my own head! I have nothing to live for. I have nothing left to lose. If I'm no longer part of this world, then neither are you... and I'm willing to make that happen if means Ben will be safe."

Captain Nature's mouth was curled in an angry snarl; his chin quivering with rage. The cool confidence that had been assaulting her for the past few days was all but gone. Now, she suspected she was seeing some of his true self.

_"Now you listen to me, and listen very carefully,_" he growled. Outside the flat, the thunder seemed to respond, rumbling menacingly. "_You cannot... you will not partake in such actions."_

"What's the matter?" she sniffed bitterly, tilting her head and squinting back at him. "Scared?"

The cartoon Super Hero's mouth and cheeks began to twitch like a rabid dog. His green gloved fists clenched and unclenched.

_"No!"_ he bawled. He pointed a mighty, shaking finger her way. _"I will not permit you to do as you please! I am a part of you, I protect you, and I won't be locked away again. Things need to be done, are you are not strong enough to do them. We simply do not have time for this!"_

Captain Nature made a motion with his hand, and the pain in Carla's head reached its climax. It speared through her mind, killing all thought in a blinding hot flash. She heard herself cry out, and then she was falling. Falling backwards, back down towards the lounge. And even after her body hit the soft cushions and bounced lightly, Carla herself kept falling.

The green clad hero's chuckle followed her as she spiralled into darkness, mingling with the stabs of pain.

'I've lost it,' she thought. 'It's over. I'm gone.'

She continued to fall, and everything grew silent...

-----

Breathe in, breathe out.

Waves, crashing on an ocean shore. Wind roaring across shale cliffs. To Carla's ears, each lungful of air sounded like a peaceful journey. She was still swimming in blackness, but it was starting to get lighter now. She kept moving, following the sounds of her breathing.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

Even her heart beat sounded loud; tribal drums on a forgotten island. The powerful footsteps of a mighty beast. She pushed onwards, following the sound.

Ben.

A single, resounding word, echoing through the void. It gave her strength, but tore a painful hole in her chest at the same time. She had a purpose, a task that needed doing. She had to wake up.

Rising quickly now, she felt her body drawing closer. There was something else close by as well, something alien. It sounded like... hissing. This hiss of static. It grew harsher the closer she came to consciousness.

Him.

He wasn't going to stop her. She could feel him fighting her, trying to push her down into oblivion. She fought back, forcing herself to rise higher.

'I won't be stopped,' she screamed in her mind. 'You can't stop me. I'll wake up, I'll break free, I'll -"

-

One eye slowly opened, revealing blurry, out of focus images. The sounds of her breathing, and the rhythmic thumps of her heart still drowned out all else, but at least the static had gone. Groaning, she clenched her teeth and willed her arms to move.

Slowly, she sat up on the sofa and rubbed her eyes, trying to clear away the sleep. The pain in her head had gone.

Sniffing, she looked around the lounge room. The TV was silent; there was no sign of Captain Nature. She let out a sigh of relief. Had it all been a dream? Everything appeared normal. Except... except it was brighter now. Panic began to well up inside. It was morning! How long had she been out for? She rushed to the nearest window and looked outside.

The storm had not yet moved on, but the at least the rain had stopped. A strong wind was blowing assorted rubbish briskly down the street, and the whole city was cast in an eerie grey half-light. There was no telling what the time was.

Time. Work! She might be late. She looked at the watch on her wrist, and her heart almost immediately sunk.

'11:48'. She was more then late. She was fired. Carla moved away from the window and sat back down on the sofa. He'd done it, just like he said. He'd removed work and Icthyman from her life. She hadn't been strong enough to stop... whatever it was he'd done to make her pass out. She collapsed backwards onto the cushions, and almost immediately sat up again. There was something poking her in the back.

Fishing around behind her, Carla felt a small, square object, and carefully pulled it out. It was her phone. A quick shiver went through her fingers.

She hadn't brought it with her last night after she'd left the bedroom and come to face Captain Nature. It should have been sitting on her bedside table, next to the lamp. Why was it here? Nervously, she checked through the list of recent calls, and saw a row of new numbers. All had been made between seven and ten a.m. that morning.

"Damn him," she whispered, putting her hand over her mouth as she scanned down the list. If she'd been worried about upsetting friends last night when coming to her final decision, it appeared she didn't have to any longer. She recognised all of them; numbers for people ranging back as far as when she was nine years old. Numbers of past colleagues, numbers of high school companions. Everyone.

What had he done? Somehow, her sinister counterpart must have taken control last night. Used her - her voice and her body - and called nearly every person she'd ever considered a friend or acquaintance. What had he said to them? What had he done?

There was nothing in her memory to that could give her a clue, but she had a feeling she knew anyway. He'd already foreshadowed his plan last night.

Everything that could be viewed as a threat. Anything that could cause her stress or anxiety. If he had told the truth, they were all dangerous to her mental health. So they all had to go. He'd called everyone and made sure they'd never want anything to do with her again. Marie and Lisa were there. So was Icthyman. And right at the very bottom, the final call...

Gorilla man.

Carla bit her lip. Captain Nature had rung him too? She didn't dare imagine what had happened in that phone call, but a small part of her hoped that it had been resolved. The theft of a credit card and the wrath of its angry owner was the last thing she needed to worry about right now.

Still, one number was missing from that list. And that was Ben's. Why hadn't Captain Nature called him? She let the phone drop in her lap and squeezed her eyes shut. If he was a part of her mind, then he probably knew the same things she did. Perhaps, then, he knew that no amount of abuse would prevent Ben from returning to the flat, and so he'd decided to leave that call out all together.

'Well, that's one piece of good news,' she thought sourly.

Captain Nature had made good on his word. He was methodically taking control of her life, bit by bit. His hold over her must have grown considerably over the past few days if he was able to do things like this. Carla knew if she waited any longer, the chances of resisting him would be slim.

Ben. She had to do it for Ben. After this little charade, there really was nothing left for her in this world. As a final solution, her choice was looking more and more like the only way out with every passing minute. And now that she'd decided to go through with it, she felt oddly elated inside.

How often in the past had she thought about doing it? How many possibilities and methods had she devised in some of her darkest moments? They stretched back well into her teenage years, she knew that, but this was the first and only time she'd really determined to go through with it. So many questions she'd been scared to think about before.

Would it hurt? Would it be quick? And where would she go afterwards? Her family had been religious, but in truth she'd never really thought about it. She didn't believe in God, but an afterlife? That she wasn't sure about...

Her eyes darted cautiously towards the TV, almost expecting it to blink into life upon hearing her thoughts. But nothing happened. Carla continued to study it suspiciously.

Where had he gone? Did a mental hallucination need to sleep? Perhaps he'd used up his energy with last nights endeavours. Or perhaps she'd managed to drive him back when she'd returned from the darkness. Whatever the reason, for now her tormentor was gone, and she needed to make the most of what little time she had left. She had one final phone call to make.


	5. Carla's Cide – The Half

**Carla's Cide - The Half**

...drrrttt...drrrrtt...dddrrtttt... click

"You have reached the residence of: _Heidi Statton_. They are unable to take your call at this moment, so please leave a message, after the beep."

-Beeeep-

"... _H-hi, Ben. It's me. Sorry to call you at your sisters place. I know she never really... approved of me. I don't know where you are at the moment, but I hope you're safe. You left in such I hurry I was... really worried._

I know you're angry at me. I know you must being feeling hurt... and betrayed... and I'm so sorry. So very, very sorry. I've said it so many times before, but I want you to understand how deeply I mean it. You helped me in some of the darkest times of my life; pulled me kicking and screaming through them to the other side. You sacrificed so much over the course of our relationship, just to see a smile on my face.

And how did I repay you? Hah... by going out and... and... being unfaithful. In my head, I thought it was because you were too kind to me. I told myself it was your fault. But that was a lie. It wasn't you. It was all me.

Something's wrong with me, Ben. I'm not well. My mind is... sick. I can't explain, because I don't really understand it myself. But I do know that whatever it is, it's dangerous. I've become a danger to all those around me. I don't want to be, but I can't seem to stop it.

I can't live that way. I can't go through the rest of my life, afraid of being near the ones I love. And I can't beat... him. He's just too strong! There's only one way out. I have to protect you, even if it might just seem like a cheap, last ditch way to make up for my betrayal.

I'm sorry, Ben. For everything. Please don't be sad. You made my life far happier then I deserved. I hope you can forgive me... and please, don't forget me.

I really do love you, Ben.

...Goodbye."

-Beeeep-

"Message: End"

-----

Carla hit the off button on the phone and paused to wipe her face. It was done. In a way, she felt she'd made her peace. She was ready to go.

Placing the mobile on the floor, she raised her foot and stomped on it fiercely. A small crack appeared on the screen, but little else. She let out an angry cry, and stamped on it again. And then again. She didn't stop till the tears had nearly dried up, and pieces of plastic were spread all over the carpet. It was a bitter sweet relief, and in some way, revenge as well.

Falling back on the sofa again, she sniffed and put a hand against her head. That was that. There was little else left for her, other then deciding how to do it. She hadn't given it much thought.

When you decide you want to die, you start to see the world differently. Just looking around the kitchen, Carla saw an almost endless supply of life terminating objects. Knives. Gas. A range of cleaning supplies. Nothing really appealed to her, but then, what did one look for when considering a situation like this?

Speedy? Painless? Effective? The last thing she wanted was to get half way through the deed, only to pass out and awaken in a hospital somewhere. Brain damaged to an even greater extent, mayhap. Possibly even a vegetable. She couldn't handle that.

Shaking her head, she got up off the sofa. No, she was going to have to be thorough. She didn't like pain, but whatever was necessary. Perhaps it was time to consider some more tried-but-true techniques? Slowly, almost dragging her feet, she made her way up the hallway.

She really needed a bath.

-

The taps squeaked as she turned them off; something she'd meant to fix numerous times. Warm steam rose from the bath, and Carla ran her hands gently over the water's surface. She'd always enjoyed baths, just like she had rain. Now everything was... different.

'Well, I've gotten this far,' she thought. 'Now what?'

She still half expected Captain Nature to appear at any moment, to throw her back into the void and start living her life. But there'd been no sign of him yet. No static or pain. She was alone, the question was; how long for?

Shrugging off her pyjama bottoms, she kicked them to one side. Her top soon followed. Carefully, she slid into the warm bath water... though the concept of 'careful' at the moment almost made her smile. There was so much she could ignore now, it was like a forbidden freedom revealed.

Bubbles floated up around her cheeks, popping softly and tickling her nose, and she allowed herself a soft sigh. It was comforting. Not a bad place to go, really. But how? She sunk lower in the water so that her nose was only barely above it.

Breathe in? Feel her lungs with liquid? She'd heard somewhere that humans had some kind of safety switch when it came to holding your breath or trying to drown. Like, unless you had help or ensured that you'd stay down, your brain would basically force you to surface again. She didn't like the idea of drowning anyway. She'd always been slightly claustrophobic.

What else? She looked around the bathroom, searched for alternate methods. To tell the truth, short of slipping and cracking ones head open, there wasn't much in there.

And then she saw Ben's razor.

It sat quietly at the end of the bath, among the shampoos and soaps. She couldn't help but flinch, even if the possibility was completely real to her. Tried-but-true? That was definitely the case. But did she have the will power for such a task?

Fingers trembling slightly, she leaned forward and picked up the seemingly innocent piece of plastic and sharp metal. So small, yet the cause of so many willingly ended lives. Would she join them? Become another floating corpse in a bath soaked in blood?

She shook the image from her mind. That didn't matter. This was for a more important reason. She had to be strong. She placed the razor against her left wrist, and bit her lip.

'Do it,' she yelled in her head. 'Don't be pathetic. I have to do it. For Ben. Think of him.'

The hand holding the razor trembled, her breathing became quicker. It would hurt though. She didn't want it to hurt. And it wasn't even very quick. She'd remembered a chronic depressive school friend saying that it was just like getting really tired and falling asleep: at least there was that. But still... she just couldn't seem to bring herself to move... that... hand...

A small crack of distant lightning made her coiled nerves snap, and she cried out in surprise. Her hand slipped, making the razor nick the side of her wrist. Blood instantly began to ooze out.

"Aaahhhh... _fuck_!" she yelled, squinting her eyes shut. Goddam, it hurt like a bitch! She opened her eyes and looked at the wound.

A small piece of flesh was missing, and a thin trickle of blood ran into the bath water. She'd missed the vein by a good inch. It was nothing more then a scratch.

"Screw it," she said through clenched teeth, getting out of the bath tub and splashing blood tinged water onto the floor. She grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her body, then pulled some toilet paper off the holder. Still biting her lip from the sting, she sat on the toilet lid and dabbed at the wound.

Hopeless. Completely hopeless. The slightest bit of pain and she'd fled like a frightened puppy. How did she expect to go through with a plan like this with _that_ attitude?

"Dammit," she hissed. She got up and walked to the mirror-cabinet. If she didn't want to die by tetanus, she might as well disinfect it. Opening the cabinet, she began to rummage through the various hygiene and first aid supplies, looking for a band aid or a wash. Something temporary. There was no need for long term prevention, after all. Her hand froze when she saw the small collection of bottles near the back.

Sleeping pills.

Back about six months ago, she and Ben had comes across some financial difficulty. Carla had lost her job at the supermarket due to forced redundancies, and Ben's apprenticeship had not yet been completed. They were surviving on mere pitons a week. The stress of such a small income and what lay in their future started to have an affect on Ben, and at some point during their hardship he'd developed insomnia.

Carla used to wake up at four in the morning, the bed beside her empty. She'd go into the lounge room, only to find Ben lying on the couch like a zombie, flicking through an endless display of late night shopper shows. This only made matters worse, as he was often too tired to focus on his work.

Doctors prescribed him a series of different medicines, most unsuccessful. And when they finally found one that worked, Carla had started her job at Icthy Fishy and Ben had finally been able to nod off each night.

As a result, a small amount of near-full tranquilizers and assorted sleep inducers now sat unused in the bathroom cabinet. Carla stared at them. It was perfect.

There'd be no pain. No waiting around. And if anyone found her; little chance of revival. She'd simply lose consciousness and never wake up. Quick, clean, and quiet.

Grabbing the bottles, she took the lid off each one and looked inside. Full. Fullish. Full. Almost empty. But more then enough to do the job three times over, she suspected. She sat back down on the toilet, the bottles held firmly in her hands. The labels read all kinds of warnings.

"Danger: Do not exceed daily dosage / may cause irritation of / do not operate heavy machinery / if insomnia persists / lack of breath / skin rash / drowsiness / headaches / nausea.../...death."

Carla stared at the word, printed in plain sight at the bottom of the labels. 'Excessive consumption may cause permanent damage, internal haemorrhaging, or death.' Carla swallowed and pulled the towel further up towards her neck. Well, if the experts said so...

Getting up, she headed towards the sink and placed the bottles on the side. She picked up the toothbrush cup and tipped the brushes into the bin. She'd never need them again. Then she turned on the tap and began to fill the cup with water.

'Here we go,' she thought, picking the first pill out of a bottle. It was small, triangular and purple. It'd be cute if its purpose hadn't now seemed so sinister. She popped it in her mouth and immediately washed it down, not wanting to taste that bitter, rancid flavour all pills seemed to have. It went down pretty easy.

"One down," she said aloud. More to go.

-----

Carla slammed into the hallway wall, hearing her shoulder click but not feeling the pain. Her breathing sounded abnormally loud. The world was on a tilt.

She'd only made it halfway through the pills before she'd begun to feel strange. A dizziness like she'd been inhaling noxious fumes set in, and a wave of nausea had almost made her bring all her hard work back up. When she'd looked at the bathroom light, she found she could actually see the beams. White and gold strands of light, linked together by pretty warping rainbows. But looking up had made her feel nauseous again, so she'd stopped that.

Groggily, she'd managed to put her pyjamas back on. The last thing she wanted was neighbours, police or - what she feared most of all - Ben breaking down the door and finding her lying naked on the floor. It would just be embarrassing.

The bathroom took on a sharp slant, and she found herself hanging onto the door frame to keep from slipping down. It was very inconvenient; what if the bath water tipped out? It would make a horrible mess. She'd just made it into the hallway when the floor had tipped the other way, making her slam into the wall.

She held her shoulder now, wondering if perhaps it had dislocated. No, she could move it. It was fine. She just needed to get to the lounge room. She stretched both arms out either side of her for balance, and began to stagger down the hallway. There were unusual rises in the carpet that looked like speed-humps. She didn't know why. She wasn't moving that quickly.

Carla finally made it to the lounge room doorway and pulled herself inside. The TV was still off. She let out a grunt of disappointment.

Where was he? She wanted to rub his face in it, take that horrible confident smirk of his face. Standing there with his manly chin and rippling chest. Smug bastard. Where had he run too?

The room started to rotate to her left, and Carla began to lose her balance. She staggered over to the sofa and attempted to sit on the cushions. It merely tipped up and spat her off, making her fall ungracefully onto floor. Apparently it didn't approve of being sat on.

Oh well, the carpet would do fine. Carla leaned forwards as the soft, green fibres rushed up to hold her. Hug her. Keep her warm. She rubbed her face against it, smiling. It was very comfortable.

The world was sideways now. She could see the hallway light through the lounge room door, sparkling like a star. The colours were beautiful. She wanted to touch them. She stuck out a groping hand, reaching, reaching. She found it amazing how far she could stretch; her arm slithered towards the doorway, warping like a vengeful snake.

'This is crazy,' she thought, feeling a small piece of normality swim through her head. She tried to grab that too, but it slipped through her fingers like jelly. 'Is it supposed to happen this fast?' Obviously warning labels were there for a reason. Maybe if the world read them more often, it wouldn't be in such a mess.

Her snake arm had given up the reach for the light now. She'd lost interest anyway; the light no longer looked as pretty. Actually, it was dimming. Only the bulb itself still seemed to glow. Carla found that her thoughts weren't working quite as fast as before. In fact, everything seemed to be slowing down. Her breathing. The rotating floor. Even the heartbeat in her ears sounded lazy.

'Going at last,' she thought. 'Now they'll be safe. Everyone will be safe. And he didn't stop me. He couldn't... stop me..."

Everything went black.


	6. Carla's Cide – The Fragment

**Carla's Cide - The Fragment**

Then everything was bright.

Carla blinked and looked around. She was out in the sunlight. She squinted and used a hand to shield her eyes, gazing skyward. Yup, definitely a sun. Mid-afternoon if she wasn't mistaken.

Lowering her hand, she observed her surroundings. She was standing on a street, beside a row of quaint wooden houses. In front of her, there was a road, and over that some shops. People were walking past her, looking busy and care free. Some were shopping, some were just strolling with dreamy looks on their faces. She herself was dressed in casual clothing; not ones she currently owned, but comfortable all the same. Everything was pleasant. Warm and pleasant. And somehow, all strangely familiar.

Carla looked at the stores across from her, curious, struggling to remember. There was an Italian restaurant, "Barratolli's". Next to that, a newsagency. There was a paper stand out the front and people were putting in coins to take one as they pleased. She hadn't seen a stand like that in a long time.

Looking quickly to make sure no cars were coming, she ducked across the road and tried to casually walk towards the papers. No one gave her a second glance. In fact, they ignored her completely. She came to the stand and peered through the glass, trying to read the date. It was small, by perfectly legible.

"April 6th, 1992."

Carla recoiled, stepping away from the stand. 1992? Fourteen years ago? What the hell was she doing here? And finally, it dawned on her.

She was home.

This street, these stores... she recognised it all as the city she'd grown up in with her family. Long before she'd run away and met Ben, and before she'd lost contact with her old life and everything about it. This street had been not far from her house; they'd lived on the city outskirts where things slightly resembled that of a small town. Quaint and old fashioned in a way. Somehow, she was back again. But why?

Could this be the whole 'life flashing before your eyes' thing? She'd heard about that often. But technically, 'flash' suggests a second, not a complete re-creation. She was almost living this.

So why was she back? Did this date have some sort of significance in her life? To be honest, she couldn't remember much of her childhood at all... she would have been, what? Six? Yes, she would have been six in 1992. It seemed far further back then she could recall.

A man was walking towards her. He seemed intent on picking up a paper from the stand. Carla put a hand out to indicate she'd like him to pause.

"Excuse me -" she started. The man didn't look up. He didn't even react. Instead, he kept walking straight at her.

"H-hey, wait!" she stammered. She tried to move backwards, but he was walking too quickly. She squinted her eyes shut, bracing for a collision.

The man passed straight through her. Carla could on stare opened mouthed as he fished a coin out his pocket and put it in the slot. Then he took a paper and continued on his way. Carla still hadn't moved.

"Ok," she breathed. "So they can't see me or hear me. Guess this really is just an illusion."

She brushed off her body, feeling awkward and a little violated. It wasn't every day you had a stranger walk through you. She looked up the street, wondering if the man had sensed anything. Anything at all. And then she froze.

Coming towards her, walking in that quick half-skip that young people often have, was a small blonde girl. She was wearing a chequered one-piece uniform, and had a backpack on. Carla put a hand up to her mouth in shock. It was her. A six year old Carla, tottering happily along, returning home after a day at school.

'No way!' Adult Carla thought. 'What is this?'

The girl was drawing close. She was humming a tune Carla didn't remember; perhaps a popular song of that day and age. Kid Carla seemed oblivious to her surroundings, and just kept coming down the street.

'And I thought I was going crazy before,' Carla scoffed to herself. She moved off the sidewalk and leaned up against the paper stand. The girl walked past, not even glancing her way.

'Amazing...' Carla shook her head. But what now? Was she supposed to be seeing something here? If so, she didn't know what.

"Miss! Little miss!"

A man's voice suddenly called out near Carla, making her jump. It had come from the alley between the restaurant and the newsagency. A sudden shiver went down her spine as she recognised the similarity between it and the place where she'd abandoned her stolen goods, only three days early. A stupid thought, really, considering this was a whole different city.

"Miss, yes you there. I need help."

Kid Carla stopped her humming and looked towards the alley. She seemed confused, but not afraid.

"Hello?" she said in a cute, high voice. "What's wrong, Mister?"

Carla watched as a middle aged man in a business suit came out onto the street. His hair was thinning and showing signs of grey. His face was bright red. It looked like he'd been running hard.

"Ah, thank you for stopping," he huffed. "I've lost my puppy."

"A puppy!" Kid Carla cried eagerly. "You have a doggy?"

"Yes, I just bought him. He's very cute. But he got frightened by a loud car and jumped out of my arms. He ran down into the alley, and I can't seem to find him."

"I love dogs," Kid Carla squealed cheerfully. "But Dad says I can't have one until I get more re-spon-sa-billy."

The man in the business suit smiled and chuckled quietly.

"Well," he said, "I need a good pair of eyes and a kind voice to help me coax my scared pooch out. If you help, I'll let you pat him for awhile. How's that sound?"

"Great!" the excited young girl cried. "He can't be far away."

She ran into the alley and disappeared from Carla's view, calling out "Puuuuuppppyy" as she went. The business man smiled and began to slowly follow her. Carla immediately felt the hairs on the back of her neck go up.

Wait, this wasn't right. Surely the girl's mum... well, _her_ mum, had told her to never go places with a strange person. This man in particular seemed suspicious. She left the paper stand and walked quickly into the alley. The girl and the man were already half way down.

"Puuuppy!" Kid Carla called. "Where are you? Hey, Mister, does he have a proper name?"

"Not yet," the man replied. "He's brand new, like I said. If you find him, maybe I'll let you name him too!"

"Awesome!" she cried, putting her hands up to her mouth in excitement.

"How about we try over there. Behind the dumpster?" The man gestured further down the alley, where an old rusted 'Mega-Dump' sat alone. The evening light wasn't shining that far down. And there was a dead end only a few meters beyond it.

Carla felt her instincts going crazy; some sort of imbedded, maternal desire to protect the child, even though said child was herself.

"Hey," she yelled at the man. "Hey you. Get away from her. I'm warning you."

The business man ignored her, instead continuing to follow the girl. He had one hand in his pocket. Kid Carla was still oblivious.

"Puuuuppy. Puppy?" she called, running behind the dumpster. "He's not here, Mister," she called after a few seconds.

The man didn't answer. He was moving quickly now, closing the gap between him and the girl.

'Oh, Jesus, no!' Carla thought. What the hell was he doing? Whatever he intended, it wasn't good. She had to stop him!

"Stay where you are!" she screamed. She raced down the alley and tried to tackle him around the waist. Instead, she fell straight through him, landing on her face in the dirt. Thankfully, there was no pain to feel.

"Are you sure?" the man asked, reaching the dumpster and standing over the girl. "Oh, that's a shame. Oh well, maybe we should try this."

He pulled his hand of his pocket, and something long and shiny came with it. It glinted in the little light there was. Carla saw her young self stare at it inquisitively.

"Is that one of those dog whistles?" she asked.

"Not quite," he replied. He put the object down closer, and both Kid Carla and her adult self saw immediately the sharp blade that flicked out of the silver box. The girl opened her mouth to scream, but the man was faster.

Thrusting an arm out, he grabbed her by the neck and slammed her against the wall. Her scream died in her throat. Her eyes looked wild with terror.

"Try and scream again, and you'll regret it," he hissed. He brought the blade up close to her face so that the tip almost touched her nose.

"Leave her alone you freak!" Carla screamed. She scrambled up and lunged at the man again, trying to kick his legs out from under him. As expected, she passed straight through.

Kid Carla was starting to sob now, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. Her hands were clinging to the man's arm, but had little effect. He was far stronger then her.

"Now listen," he scowled at her, "we're going to be playing a few little games. If you do each game properly, I might let you go. Do you understand?"

Kid Carla stared at him, her eyes watery with tears.

"Do you under_stand_?" he growled, slamming her against the wall again.

The girl nodded her head vigorously, making tears spray in all directions. Carla felt tears welling up inside her as well. She was helpless. Why was she seeing this? Was she in Hell, and this was her eternal punishment?

"Let her go, you sick bastard," she said weakly. She was feeling ill in the stomach, and fell back against the wall, doubled over. "Sick... freak."

"That's good," the business man said. He took the knife away from her nose, and pointed it downwards, running it along the side of her dress. "First thing; let's see what we have -"

A loud bang suddenly rang through the alleyway. The man in the suit, Carla and the girl all jumped and looked back towards the street. The business man let out an angry growl.

About halfway up, a door in the wall had opened. It seemed to be a back entrance to the Italian restaurant, and at that moment, the chef had come outside. He was wearing the full cook's attire; white apron, big puffy hat. In his right hand he had a meat cleaver which he was using to scrape pieces of food off a big wooden chopping board. He hadn't seen the people staring at him a few metres down the alley.

The business man thrust the knife under Kid Carla's chin.

"Make one sound and it'll be your last," he whispered. The girl just stared back at him, too afraid to even nod. Carla could see in her eyes how badly she wanted to make the chef aware of their presence. It must have felt so close... yet so far away.

The business man held his breath, watching the chef with a wicked intensity. The chopping board was clean now, and it was mere moments before he went back inside. So close... so close.

A rat came squealing out of the door, running into the alley and down their way.

"What in the...!" the chef cried in a heavy accent, followed by some words in his own language. "Where did you come from?"

He raised his knife and made to chase after it... and finally saw the man in the suit, attempting to conceal himself and somebody else behind the old dumpster.

"Eh? Who's there? Whatta you up to?"

The business man swore under his breath and forced Kid Carla towards the ground.

"Don't move a goddam inch," he whispered. Then he came out from behind the dumpster. "Ah, hey there. Sorry, I'm a bit lost. My dog ran away, and I've been searching everywhere for him. Thought I saw him come down here."

The chef narrowed his eyes and pointed the cleaver towards the dumpster.

"Whhooo have you got there?" he asked slowly. "I thought I saw somebody else."

The business man scoffed, making a face as if it was the silliest thing he'd ever heard.

"Someone? Who else would be there? It's a festering rubbish pit. I guarantee I'm alone."

The chef stared at him suspiciously, then began to move quickly down the alley. The business man stepped back in surprise.

"Hey, wait just a -"

The chef pushed past him and spotted Kid Carla cowering against the wall. She looked up at him, pleading with her eyes. She didn't utter a word.

"What..?" the chef gasped. He looked from the cowering child, to the man that had been assaulting her, and back to the child again. "You some kind of sicko?"

The business man immediately brought up the switchblade and brandished it in front of him in a defensive stance.

"Stay the hell out of this," he growled. "I'll cut you if I have too."

"You'll cut _me_?" the chef almost chuckled. He raised his own knife, the enormous cleaver dripping with the remains of some pre-prepared meat product. "I'm doubting that."

The business man sneered and took a step backwards.

"Fuck you," he said. Then ran forward with his knife raised.

The chef moved aside in time to avoid the first lash out, but the second one caught the side of his chest. He fell against the dumpster with a mighty clang, sending dust up in a cloud.

"You... bastard!" he snorted. He raised the cleaver and brought it down in a large, overhanded swing. The businessman easily dodged it.

Unfortunately for the chef, he was unable to bring the cleaver up in time, and so found himself toppling forward. The man in the suit spun as the bigger cook staggered past, and imbedded the small switchblade into the back of his neck. The chef fell like a stone, his head landing inches from Kid Carla's feet. Her mouth opened as if to scream, but no sound came out.

Carla, however, could scream, and she did so. It was horrific to watch, and the feeling of helplessness left her close to vomiting. She couldn't believe what she'd just seen. It couldn't have happened. It wasn't real.

The business man was breathing heavily, but otherwise seemed uninjured. He gave the body a kick, just to be sure, before bending down to grip the handle of the knife. It had locked in pretty tightly; perhaps caught between two of the chef's vertebrae. He had to put a foot on the man's head.

The knife came free in a squirt of bright red liquid, some of which splashed on the business man's sleeve. The knife swung out, trailing blood as it went, and a thin line splashed across Kid Carla's face. She didn't move. She barely even blinked. She just sat, staring at the body at her feet. At the chef that had tried to save her, and now no longer lived.

The business man made a 'tch' sound with his tongue and motioned to wipe the blade on the chefs white clothes. Instead, he paused, and seemed to get a better idea. He stepped over the body and knelt down so that he was eye level with Kid Carla. Then he drew the flat sides of the knife over each of her cheeks, leaving red stains as he did.

"Remember this," he said softly. "If you ever tell the police or anyone else what happened here, or even what I look like, I'll find you. I'll come to your house. I'll get your mum and dad while they're sleeping, and I'll kill them right in front of you. Then I'll cut you so bad that no one will look at you with love ever again. You got that?"

Kid Carla looked up at him; she didn't cry, she didn't nod. She just stared vacantly. The business man waved his knife in front of her a few times, then shook his head,

"See ya, kid," he scowled. Then he pocketed the knife and ran down the alley.

Carla tried to stand up straight, ignoring the pain in her stomach.

"Wait! Come back, you bastard. Come back!" A wave of nausea made her fall to her knees. "Wait..."

He had gone. Disappeared out on the street. She wouldn't be able to stop him, even if she could run after him. This wasn't her time or her world. This belonged to the younger her; the blood spattered, silent six year old her that now sat silent behind the dumpster. Carla crawled over to her, avoiding the body of the chef.

"I'm so sorry," she repeated. "So, so sorry." She tried to put her arms around the girl, but passed through every time. Hopeless.

As she fell backwards on the ground, choking on tears, Kid Carla stood up. There was no expression on her face. She looked as pale and stony as granite. Carla watched her step over the body of the chef and around the dumpster. She began to head down the alley, back towards the street.

"H-hey?" Carla called, confused. "Where are you going?"

Kid Carla continued to stumble along. Her backpack fell off her shoulders, landing on the ground with a thud. Carla got up and tried to go after her. The sick pain in her stomach was starting to ease.

"Wait! Don't go yet. He could still be there!"

They came out on the street into bright evening light, and Carla looked to her left and right. The people who had seen the girl's appearance were staring in shock. But there was no sign of the business man. A woman in her twenties ran up and grabbed Kid Carla by the shoulders.

"My god, what happened to you?" she gasped. Kid Carla slumped forward, her small face resting against the women's neck. She didn't say anything.

"Call an ambulance!" an elderly gentlemen yelled into the newsagency. Some other people ran down into the alley, and all stopped short when they saw the body.

"Oh my god, there's one here to. Quick, does anyone know CPR?"

Carla watched as random strangers tried desperately to save the chefs already extinguished life. She watched the young woman and others try to comfort Kid Carla and get her to speak. The sick feeling churned in her stomach.

Listless, she fell against the side of the newsagency and slid down onto the path. Her view gazed up the street, towards where the sun was slowly beginning to set.

'So this is what happened,' she thought, squinting against the light. 'This is where it all went wrong.'

She sat quietly, letting passer-by's hurry around and try their best to help. Soon enough, sirens sounded in the distance. The ambulance was drawing near.

By the time it reached them, Kid Carla was in a large, muscular man's arms. He was holding her close to his chest and barely letting anyone else get close. Only when the paramedics arrived did he finally hand her over.

"I'm a med student," he blurted out. "She's in shock. You need to do something, fast."

The paramedics pulled a stretcher out of the ambulance and lay the girl on it. Then they began to go over the usual checks. Pulse. Breathing. Response. Carla got up off the footpath and walked over to the crowd, watching as they pulled her younger self's eyelids up and done and shone a small flashlight in her pupils. She still hadn't uttered a sound.

Carla stood over herself, looking down at the pale blood spattered face. Her own face screwed up in despair.

"You... we... never stood a chance," she choked.

There was a screech of brakes, and a brown sedan pulled up beside the ambulance. Carla looked up, and gaped in shock. That was her car. Her family's old fender bender. And inside...

"Oh my god, Carla, Carla honey!" The woman Carla recognised as her mother flung open the passenger side door and raced over to the stretcher. Her arms were wide open. She wanted to hold her baby. But the paramedics stepped in her way.

"Sorry, ma'am, she can't be touched. She's in a very delicate state."

"But that's my _daughter_!" she screamed in reply.

In the car behind, Carla saw the driver's side door open, and a man with blonde hair got out. Her father. He had a grim look on his face that suggested he expected the worst. Perhaps he was right too? Better to be prepared then hopeful.

The paramedics finally let her hysterical mother get near the stretcher, and she stood over the prone, unresponsive body of her child. Carla was only a few feet away, looking at a face she hadn't seen for nearly four years. An overwhelming sadness passed through her, and for the first time she realised how much she missed her family. She wanted to reach out and touch them.

"Mum...?" she called, her voice cracking slightly. A second later, her father squeezed in beside his wife. He was looking down at his motionless daughter with a look darker then a coastal storm. He was raging inside, even if he didn't want to show it.

"Dad..." Carla sniffed, gazing over at him too and feeling the painful tug of reminiscence in her heart.

So this is how it all started.

Carla sat on the edge of the stretcher, looking down at a familiar yet fourteen-years-younger face. The face she'd seen in the mirror all her life. She ran her fingers lightly across the child's hair.

She couldn't remember any of this event, but a lot of things made sense to her now. Why there was such a large portion of her childhood that seemed to be missing from her memory all together. Way she had such trouble in school when it came to developing social groups or making new friends. The friendly 'doctor' that came by once a month for nearly her entire high school life, just to 'check on how she was feeling. Wouldn't want you to get sick, after all, a kid's supposed to have fun'.

_If you ever tell the police or anyone else what happened here, or even what I look like, I'll find you. I'll come to your house. I'll get your mum and dad while they're sleeping, and I'll kill them right in front of you. Then I'll cut you so bad that no one will ever look at you with love ever again. You got that?_

Those words. The only thing that really struck a cord in her mind. Is that why her relationship with her parents had degraded in her later years? That fear of danger she felt whenever she was with them? Is it possible... that she even ran away from home because of it?

Now that she thought about it, maybe she had. Maybe she hadn't been running away from them because she disliked them. In fact, she never remembered hating her parents. Even when Ben asked about them she wasn't sure why she left. Maybe it was because she wanted to protect them. The business man may or may not have been caught, but those words were locked away in her mind; trapped in the part Captain Nature called 'the fragment'.

This whole event had governed the outcome of her life, right up until the final day. The end of it all, where she now lay dieing on the carpet of her living room thanks to a sleeping pill over dose. What a sad, sad course of events. In a way, she was glad it was over.

Things were starting to go dark now, as the sun set behind the distant suburban houses. The people around the stretcher began to fade, grow misty, like shadows. Soon, only Carla, the child on the sketcher, and her grief stricken parents remained.

Carla bent down and kissed the prone girl on the forehead.

"I'm so sorry," she said for the final time. "Sorry that it will all end this way."

She turned to her parents, feeling the pang of longing wrench at her stomach.

"I hope you won't think bad of me," she said. "I miss you guys. I wish I'd had time to contact you before leaving."

Then something happened that made her skin go cold. Her father looked at her; stared directly into her eyes.

"What have you done?" he growled.

Carla took a step back in surprise.

"D-dad?" she gasped.

"What have you _done_?" he bellowed again. But this time it wasn't his voice. It was deeper, more confident. It sounded like the voice...

Of a Hero.

"No!" Carla cried, throwing her arms up. "No, stay away! I'm not going back, I won't!"


	7. Carla's Cide – The Whole

**Carla's Cide - The Whole**

Carla opened her mouth and coughed, feeling the weight of life returning to her limbs.

What happened? Was she back? But how could that be? With the amount of pills she took, there should have been little to no hope at all of reawakening. How had that smug bastard done it? She had to be certain this wasn't just another dream.

She coughed again, and felt liquid rush through her lips. She reached up a hand to wipe it away. It was warm. And it tasted like blood. No, this wasn't a dream. It was worse.

Opening her eyes, she was once again greeted by her apartment's lounge room. Or at least, that's what she thought it was. It had completely changed now. The wallpaper had peeled, revealing rotten, termite ridden wood. The light bulbs flickered and sparked. From her place on the floor, she could see into the kitchen, and the mountains of rubbish that lay there. The fridge door had swung wide open, and an awful stench was seeping out. It made her want to gag.

What the hell was going on? It looked like something from a nightmare! Was _this_ Hell? Or merely an external projection of the sickness in her mind. She squeezed her eyes shut as another cough roared up her throat. A considerable amount of blood and yellow bile came with it, and searing heat boiled in her stomach.

She may have been awake, but she hadn't come out of it unscathed. The pills had done their job; she was haemorrhaging from the inside. One by one, her internal organs were shutting down or falling apart. She wasn't going to last long, even if she had managed to pull through the overdose.

Loud static made her start, and she moved her head to look at the TV. Two of its legs had broken off, and it lay lop sided on the floor. A crack ran down its middle. She was surprised it was even working. The screen flickered violently, and then the face of Captain Nature filled it fully.

"_What have you done_?!" he screamed at her.

"Stopped... you," Carla croaked, feeling something tear inside her chest. If the painkilling properties of the pills hadn't been working, she knew she would have been in agony.

"_Stopped me? Stopped me?! You've ruined everything!_" he yelled through the screen. "_You've destroyed the barrier; the fragment and your mind are returning as one!"_

"So what?" she sneered, using her arms to raise herself up to her knees.

"_Look around,_" he snarled. "_Does this look normal to you?"_

From sitting position, Carla had a better view of what once resembled her lounge room. The shattered windows. The torn couch. Everything was in shambles. Had she done this? It seemed pretty implausible. Only half a lifetime's worth of neglect could create something this decayed. 

"Why did you bring me back?" she asked, trying to stand on her feet and swaying slightly.

"_Because I need to protect you,_" he answered. "_If you fall into insanity, I fall too._"

"And you couldn't just let me die, because then it'd be the same for you," Carla said sourly.

"_You need me,_" Captain Nature snarled.

"I don't need shit," she replied. "Let me go in peace."

"_I can't do that. I won't._"

A light bulb above her head shattered in a cascade of tinkling shards, and the room went darker. The TV's flickering screen cast an eerie blue glow over the destroyed furniture and collapsing walls. Captain Nature's face leered at her.

"God_damn_ it!" she yelled at him, a spray of blood following her words. "Why won't you leave me alone? Just _go away_."

"_Never_," he said through bared teeth.

Carla clenched her fists, but found she had neither the strength nor the will for any kind of attack. Her rapidly fading body was growing weaker by the minute, and a deep lethargy was starting to grip her. She fell to her knees again; a trickle of blood running down the side of her mouth.

"_Submit to me. We can beat this. Together._"

"Fuck you," she wretched. She tried to concentrate on breathing, but found that there were bubbles in her throat. They sucked in and out with each gasp. It wouldn't be long now.

And then she heard it. A tinkling, mournful little tune. A tune she used to love.

"... hide my head I want to drown my sorrow. No tomorrow, no tomorrow..."

She looked around her, trying to find the source of the sound. Where was it?

"... and I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad..."

Ah, there. She spotted it under the sofa. The remnants of her phone, the screen flashing bright green. She picked it up and looked at it, confused.

"...the dreams in which I'm dieing are the best I've ever had..."

The phone was destroyed. The battery wasn't even in its compartment. And yet, there it was. Ringing. Singing its sad tune. She stared at the screen, at the name on the display.

"Caller ID: Ben"

"Ben..." Carla sobbed. How? He was trying to contact her, but this made no sense. With the phone in such a state, there was no means for her to answer!

"_Forget him,_" Captain Nature bawled. "_He can't help you. He never could._"

"That's not true..." Carla gripped the phone remains tightly in her fist. "He did everything for me. He loved me, even with my flaws. And... I loved him too. I just realised it too late. I want him. I _need_ him."

"I'm _all you need!_"

"No..." Carla gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut. There was pain now. White hot pain. This was it.

"NO!" she screamed. "It's _not_ true! I _never_ needed _you_!"

Pulling back her arm, she threw the phone with the little strength she had left, straight at the TV screen. It struck the glass on the crack, and Carla had just enough time to see Captain Nature's surprised, open mouthed gape of horror. With a sound like lightning, the TV exploded in a shower of sparks. Destroyed.

Carla fell to the floor with a soft sigh; her energy used, but replaced with a strange feeling of elation. There were no further means for him to torment her. She'd done it.

He was gone.

"Got you," she choked. The hint of a smile formed on her blood stained lips. "Got..."

And then something gave in her throat, and she could no longer breathe. Everything in her chest seemed to collapse inwards at once. There was only a moment of panic, before she welcomed it with relief. Carla closed her eyes, feeling that dizzy, spiralling feeling starting to return.

All over. All gone. She was free at last. Life and responsibility. Guilt and despair. She'd never need worry about things like that again. And neither... would Ben. Oh, he'd be sad for her. But it would pass. He had a life. He had a career, and a plan. He didn't need her. She was happy to let him go now, knowing that he'd be safe.

She was floating now, down through the darkness. Is this what true death felt like? Was it meant to be so... soothing? She wanted to open her eyes, but her body wasn't responding.

"_Carla? Carla, honey?_"

The soft sound of her mothers voice, calling her from afar.

"_We're going out for cocktails! You should come!_"

The gleeful chatter of Marie and Lisa after her first day of work.

"_We'll be fine. We always are. I love you too much to give up now._"

Ben, during that brief period of financial hardship. The memories made her sad, but there was no feeling of regret. There'd been so many people... so many great people...

Spiralling down, far out of control. Returning to the void. Would it go on forever? Did she really even care? Then, as if to answer that thought, she suddenly hit something hard. A platform in the dark, that jolted her from paralysis. Carla opened her eyes and gazed about, confused by the interruption. What on earth could that be?

Standing over her was a person. A smiling young face, framed with blonde hair. She immediately recognised it as her six year old self, innocent and happy. Before the incident.

"_Hello,_" the girl giggled shyly, offering her hand. Carla stared back, unsure of what to do.

"_We're... going?_" she asked her kid self. "_Together?_"

The little girl grinned again, and shook her head playfully.

"_Not yet. But soon. Here: let me help._"

Carla smiled back weakly, and reached out towards the delicate fingers, reaching up through the blackness.

"_OK.._." she said softly.

Her hand locked around that of the smaller six year olds...

And then everything went grey.


	8. In the World of Grey…

**In the World of Grey...**

I open my eyes, realising that Carla has been silent for more then a few minutes now. I guess her story is over.

For the most of it, I was sitting below the barred window with my knees under my chin, just listening to the tale she was weaving. Compared to hers, my last days suddenly feel pathetic. She's gone through so much.

"That was... so sad," I say. "I had no idea things like that could happen in our world."

"Well," I hear Carla half-laugh, "I guess they do." She sighs, and lets out a loud sniff. "Things like that happen. And it sucks."

I purse my lips together, unsure of what to say next. Though I feel sorry for her, there were parts of her story I recognised. Things I'd seen, or heard. I'd been there, just like the misty guard had said, only I didn't realise it at the time. The only question now is now is whether I have the courage to tell her about the role I played. Perhaps the others had experienced similar realisations?

"Lance? Richard?" I call. "What do you make of it?"

My fellow cell mates have been silent since the story began. Now I'm eager to know what's on their minds. I stand up and peer through the window, waiting for Lance to return to his. He's nowhere in sight.

"Lance?" I call again. I put my ear through the bars, straining to listen. There's a noise in his cell, but at first I can't identify it. Then it dawns on me. He's laughing.

"... ah, Lance. Are you... okay?" I ask warily.

"Me?" he answers through his chuckles. "I'm fine."

His large, dark face suddenly appears in the window. There's a strange look in his eyes.

"I've never been better in my whole goddam life," he hisses.

"... Are you sure?" I say, eyeing him cautiously.

"Sure?" He smiles, showing his pristine white teeth. "There's only one thing I'm sure of." His expression darkens. "And that is; if I ever get out of here, that bitch will die. Again"

"What?" Carla's shrill voice cries. "Why??"

I'm so shocked by this sudden change in Lance's temperament that I don't know what to say. Only a short time ago he'd been calling her "Sweet thing". Now this?

"It was you," he snarls. "_You_ killed him."

"Who? What are you talking about??" Carla's face is back in the window, looking even paler then before she started her story. In fact, she looks terrified.

"It wasn't even his fault," Lance sobs angrily. "He didn't do anything..."

His hands grip the bars, and I can see his muscles tightening. I desperately try to think of a way to calm him down, but my mind is completely blank.

"I'll kill you," he growls. "I'll _kill you_!!"

Lance suddenly snaps and begins to heave at the bars, howling like a wild thing. A stream of profanities like I've never heard comes from his mouth. He's out of control. He's insane.

"Stop it!" Carla screams, moving back in her cell and putting her hands over her ears. "I can't take it. What did I do?? Please _stop_!"

Lance pays no heed, and just continues to pull at the bars so viciously the veins in his neck are bulging.

_"I'll kill you! How could you do it? I'll kill you!"_

Though it's only slight, I feel a tremor under my feet. For the smallest of instances my cell seems to shake and I hear what sounds like a low rumble. An uneasiness begins to rise in my stomach.

"Lance, stop!" I yell, finding my voice at last. "Something's not right..." I stick my face through the bars and try to yell to my left. "Richard, please: help! Say something."

"Screw you," comes the growled reply. "And screw her too."

"What?" I gasp. "But... why?"

Lance must have heard Richard, as his assault on the window begins to slow in its ferocity. His torrent of abuse gives ways to loud, raspy breaths, and finally he stops. He rests the top of his bald against the bars, his hands still gripping them tightly.

"Lance?" I ask softly.

He looks up, and I can see his eyes are almost red with blood shot. But he's not looking at me. He's looking towards Richard's cell.

"What the hell problem you got with her?" he croaks.

"I got plenty," Richard answers. "I just don't need to express my anger by losing it and turning into an animal."

"You too?" I ask sadly.

Both Richard and Lance had angered so suddenly. What did Carla do to them? What part of her sad story made them turn on her so brutally? I knew my part in it... but what was theirs? She soon appears in the window again, biting her lip tentatively and her eyes puffy with tears. I'm almost furious at my cell mates for doing this to her after everything she's been through.

"Are you alright?" I ask.

"No," she whimpers. "I don't know what I've done. Why do they hate me?"

"Because you've done some... unpleasant things," Richard says darkly. From the way Carla flinches, I assume he's not looking to friendly. "You've lied and stolen. I may not be bawling like our pathetic friend over there, but I feel no less contempt for you then he does. You had a hand in ruining my life too"

"No!" Carla's cries, screwing up her face. "I ended it all to escape these things. Why here too? Can't I be free anywhere?

She puts her hands either side of her head, baring her teeth as if she's in pain.

"Leave me alone! I don't need you! This is hell... I'm _in Hell!_"

Carla lets out a tormented wail and disappears into her cell. At the same time, a violent tremor almost knocks me off my feet.

"What the fu-" Lance cries, before being cut off. I hear a thud seconds later. He must have fallen over.

The white light that fills my room flickers, even though there's no bulb to do so, and a deep, foreboding rumble rises from beneath the floor. Carla is still wailing distantly.

"What's going on?" I hear Richard yell.

I can't reply. Something falls from the ceiling and lands near my feet. Curious, I pick it up. It looks like plaster. Common, household plaster. Gazing up, I see that a crack has formed in the roof of my cell. With each tremor it lengthens, growing larger before my eyes.

Something's wrong. Something's going very wrong. I have no idea what, but the sense of dread in the pit of my stomach tells me that if it continues it will only mean bad news. If I don't do something quickly...

I stand up and grip the bars, holding on as another tremor threatens to unbalance me.

"Carla!" I yell. "You have to stop. The place is falling apart! I'm sorry if we upset you!"

"I agree," Richard calls out as well. "Stop crying before it gets worse."

Carla's wailing begins to lessen. I can hear it fading to mere sobs and chokes. In response, the tremors come to a halt and the white light stops flickering. Everything goes still again.

Lance's face suddenly appears in his window. There's a thin trickle of blood running down his forehead. He must have hit his head when he fell.

"What the hell was that?" he says. The anger on his face has been replaced by an almost fearful confusion. He dabs at the trail of blood with his hand. "Guess we can still bleed in here, even if we are dead."

"I don't know what happened," I admit. "But there's a crack in my ceiling now."

I take a step back from the window and look up; double checking to confirm my sanity. The crack is still there, though it's slightly wider now.

"There's a small hole in my wall," Richard says. "And a crack in the corner. Whatever it was, it was strong. I didn't think you could get earthquakes in the afterlife..."

I continue to look at the crack in my ceiling, trying to see through it and beyond. Only darkness greets me. An eerie, endless black.

"Hit my head on the floor, thanks to those tremors," Lance mumbles, "Damned thing crumbled on me!"

"Can you see down it?" I ask.

"Yeah. It's only small, but enough to put my eye over. Not much to see though; darker then Satan's ass crack down there."

I shiver, wishing he wouldn't say things like that. It makes the uneasiness in my stomach quicken. The only person who hasn't replied is Carla. She's still out of view in her cell, perhaps hunkered on the floor.

"Carla?" I call. "Are you ok now?"

She doesn't answer for awhile, just continues to sniff.

"There's a crack in my wall too..." she says at last.

I begin to cautiously pace my room, finding I'm unable to take my eyes off that crooked black line snaking across the ceiling. How did it happen? And why? The tremors had started when Lance began to lose it, and gotten worse when Carla joined in. Could the whole place be connected to our emotional state somehow? It seems like the only plausible explanation, though I know how crazy it sounds.

"I think we should all try to remain calm," I say, returning to the window. "I don't think it likes us getting angry."

"It?" Lance sneers. "It what? You mean this place? A hallway can't think, man. Walls don't have ears."

"This isn't our world anymore," Richard replies. "We know nothing about it. If only to be on the safe side; I recommend we tread with caution from now on."

"Yeah, well, the day I listen to your flabby white ass is the day God forgives us all," Lance snarls. "Or at least, the day that I forgive that bitch in the cell next to me."

"Please, don't," I plead. "Don't push it any further."

"Why the hell not?!" Lance yells. "It's her fault. He didn't have a chance. She deserves everything she got, and whatever's coming to her as well."

I can feel anger building inside me, making my fists clench. He doesn't want to listen to Richard. And he certainly doesn't want to listen to me. Just like everyone in my life. I might as well be non-existent for all the power I hold. Even in death I'm weak and pathetic.

The light in my cell dims slightly, and I immediately unclench my hands. It's getting worse, seeming to tune into my feelings faster. I take a deep breath and try to release all the tension. Push the anger back down inside.

"Lance..."

It's Carla. Her voice is almost a whisper; sad and mournful.

"Lance. What did I do?"

Her face in the window reminds me of someone lost, beyond hope. She must have cried more in the past few days then she has in her lifetime. I can't even begin to understand how she feels.

"Please. Tell me. I want to know. If my actions hurt you or those in your life, I need you to tell me."

"Yeah, and why's that?" Lance spits. He's pacing back and forth in his cell, looking at something on the floor. Maybe the hole makes him uneasy too.

"For justification, I guess," Carla says sadly. "To know that taking my life served more then just my own selfish cause. I mean, was I... was what I did... was that your reason for -"

"Oh, please, don't give yourself that much credit," Lance interjects bitterly. "If every guy done himself in because of a woman, there wouldn't be much left of the male race."

He slowly returns to the window and bends down to peer through. He turns his head to one side, so that his voice reaches his teary neighbour as well as those of us opposite him.

"Do you really wanna to know?" he asks. "You really wanna hear why I decided to end my wreck of a life?"

"Yes," Carla answers. "I need to know."

Lance's eyes focus on me. I pause for a second, then nod. If someone else wants to go before me, then I'm willing to listen, because I still have no desire to talk about my final days. Though I realise that my tale is probably far less tragic then theirs. If Lance wants to speak, then he's more then welcome to it.

"Go ahead," I say. "It's what the guard told us to do anyway."

"I couldn't give a crap," Richard growls. "If it means you'll stop you're whining for a few hours, be my guest."

Lance moves away from the window and starts to pace again, obviously still annoyed and working through his feelings.

"Alright, fine. But don't expect nothing fancy. My head ain't full of imaginary friends or some dirty, hidden past. Hell, I didn't even really want to die."

"Hah, right," Richard scoffs. "Why are you here then?"

"Because!" Lance hisses, returning to the window and thrusting his face through the bars. "Because of one, simple, fact."

"And that is?"

Lance narrows eyes and lets his mouth curl up in an obvious snarl.

"Because God... is a bitch."


	9. Lance's Lament – Path of Doubt

**Lance's Lament - Path of Doubt**

"_God Loves You_"

Lance yawned and gazed up at the large, colourful words. Sewn into a giant hanging wall cloth at the far end of his room, they were quite hard to miss. 

Sunlight streamed in through window, making him squint as he readjusted to the waking world. What time was it? He groaned and rolled over. Whatever it was, he knew it was still far too early. It was Saturday after all.

"Clancy?" A booming female voice echoed up from downstairs, quite easily audible even through the thick floor boards. "You awake, baby?"

Lance squinted his eyes shut and buried his head under the pillow. Couldn't he get one decent sleep in? Just one? He'd always thought of home as a place of comfort and relaxation; somewhere to come back and rest, away from the busy world. But lately it seemed his mother was determined to shatter that fragile expectation.

"Clancy, you get your lazy ass down here. You promised you'd take your brother out shopping. Don't you be acting like you've forgotten."

"Five more minutes!" Lance yelled, lifting the pillow up enough so his voice could be heard. She could be so persistent sometimes.

-

It'd been two months since he'd moved back into the house he'd grown up in. The house where his parents had lived most of their lives, and raised six children; three boys, three girls. In terms of placement, Lance was the second last. The final son, Michael, was the only one left at home. And now Lance was back too.

Eight weeks ago, he'd received an emergency phone call. His mother had suffered a stroke, and now lay in hospital. Lance had to make the twelve hour flight immediately, leaving not only his job and share mates behind, but a growing love interest as well.

It wasn't that he regretted it. This was his mother after all; the one who gave him life. Coming to see her in a time of need was the least he could do. What annoyed him most was the fact that, out of the four older siblings he'd grown up with, none of them had been able to find the time. Lance was the only one.

Patrick, the eldest, was somewhere in Italy, organising new business contacts, and was simply far to busy to make the plane trip over. Sheree said she was unable to find a baby sitter, claimed that her family had never supported her being a single mother, and hung up. Lucinda said she'd come, and then never turned up. She didn't answer any further calls. And Kristine... well, she'd disappeared into the darker, sleazier parts of the inner city long ago. The last time she'd been seen, she was standing in a queue at some V.D. health clinic. Her mobile had been disconnected.

Lance felt sorry for his mother. Ever since his father had died three years ago, she'd seemed somehow... lost. Being a mother and a wife was the only job she really knew. With most of the children moved on, and suddenly absent a husband, it had been a trying time for her. She'd had Michael, of course, but it seemed like a small consolation.

Lance had hope for the kid though. He was growing up to be a kind and caring young man. But what would happen when Michael too eventually left home? Lance couldn't stay here forever. It wasn't something he wanted to think about. Not yet, anyway.

"She needs bed rest," the doctor explained, "and plenty of it. That means no vigorous activities such house work, shopping or recreational sports. And absolutely nothing that could cause stress. She's in a very fragile state at the moment, and even the smallest shock could cause damage to her heart. She might not pull through it so well a second time."

So Lance had arranged for his belongings to be sent up, moved back into his old house, and prepared for the long haul. It had taken two weeks for his mother to feel well enough to get out of bed, and during that time it had been entirely up to him and Michael to take care of her. They cooked, they cleaned, they prayed for her recovery. God had been significant source of strength for them... even if Lance did find himself questioning why such an event had happened in the first place.

Mike had been particularly good about the whole business. Having to change those horrifying adult diapers was beyond the call for a kid his age. They were both relieved when she was able to take care of that herself. After a month, she seemed good as new, and even insisted on making dinner and doing some mild house cleaning. The little that Lance allowed her too.

"I've been doing this for nearly forty years, boy," she scowled, shooing him away from the stove, "it don't feel right me sitting here all useless like. Now you be getting out of my way."

Michael continued to help as best he could, in-between the usual teenager duties of homework, television and mucking about with friends. It was his first year of high school, so Lance didn't blame him for trying to have a life of his own. For being the sixth and final child (and what could have been described as a medical "accident") he was showing promise of being the most successful of the lot. Lance found the bond between them to be strong, and it was comforting to have a best friend, as well as a brother, through a time that was difficult on all of them.

"You done well, bro," Lance beamed, giving his smaller sibling an affectionate rub on the head. "One of these days, I'll take you out to the mall, and we'll buy whatever the damn hell you want. How's that sound?"

-

And today was that day.

Lance sighed, and raised the pillow slightly. His old bed was comfortable, but he found it a lot smaller then when he was growing up. Looking to the end of the covers, he could see his feet sticking out a good four inches. He should probably see about getting a longer one.

Twenty six, and living back at home. He would have been embarrassed if the reason hadn't been so important. He guessed, in the long run, it wasn't such a bad thing. It was nice being back in his 'home town', so to speak, and he'd even caught up with some old friends while he was here. Lance could think of worse places to be.

"Clancy! It's been ten minutes. Don't make me come up there."

"Alright, I'm coming. Jesus!" he yelled back, throwing the pillow onto the floor in frustration.

"Don't you be taking the Lords name in vain!" came the bellowed response. "You're not too big that I still can't give you a hiding."

"Counts as vigorous activity, Ma; no beatings allowed."

All was quiet for awhile, and then he heard a soft chuckle. At least she was in a good mood. It made him smile too. And then the familiar smell of fried bacon seeped under the door and started to fill his room.

'Damn, she is a _sly_ one!' he thought to himself.

With a defeated grunt, he threw off his blankets and got out of bed.

-----

"Morning, Sunshine!" the elderly, well built woman said cheerily as Lance stumbled into the kitchen. For fifty four, she looked remarkably well, despite being slightly overweight and having recently suffered a life threatening illness.

"Mornin', Ma," he replied.

"I'm making your favourite," she said, turning her attention back to the stove where two frying pans were being jiggled simultaneously. "Egg and bacon toasties with hashbrowns. Mmmm-mm; just you smell that."

"You know you shouldn't be eatin' stuff like this, Ma," Lance said casually, sitting down at the kitchen table. "All that grease and fat: you want yourself another heart attack?"

"Nonsense," she scoffed, dismissing him with a wave of her hand. "This's all part of a healthy morning's breakfast. Gotta look after my babies."

"I got a few years before I need to start caring about this stuff," Lance smirked. "It's _you_ I'm worried about."

His mother didn't reply, but he knew she was most likely rolling her eyes or scowling sarcastically. She was a tough woman, always had been. Doctors told her she'd never have another kid after Lance... and yet low and behold, thirteen years later there was Michael. Now the boy was exactly half is age, and his mother was still going about her usual chores as if nothing had ever happened. He wondered how she found the energy.

"Hey, big bro," a cheery voice cried. Lance felt strong arms lock around his neck and a face press against his cheek. "You ain't forgotten about today, I hope?"

"How could I," Lance answered, gasping slightly for breath, "when you got me in a vice lock like this?"

Michael laughed and let his brother go, before sitting down in the chair to his left. Lance looked at him; a skinny weed of a kid, the first signs of acne beginning to dot the places where oil tended to build up. He was tall for his age, but well on his way to being bigger. Lance suspected maybe even taller then he was. Michael was wearing a white T-shirt, sporting a big headed, pink toy dog on the front. There were some Japanese letters printed over it.

"What the hell is that thing?" Lance asked, leaning in to look closer. "Isn't it kinda girlie...?"

"No way!" Michael replied. "That's Maromi. The shirt came with those new DVDs you just got me. He's awesome, and totally not cute if you watch the series. When are you gonna do that with me, anyway? I've been asking you for weeks now."

"Whoa, one thing at a time," Lance said, putting up his hands in a defensive manner. "Shopping first. I still got things to do myself, you know. A job ain't going to come looking for me on its own."

"Oh, you'll find one, baby," his mother said over her shoulder. "You got more talent in that shiny head of yours then any of your brothers or sisters..."

Lance looked up sharply after hearing her voice trail off. He knew she felt more then litle a hurt that none of them had come to visit her. As it was, she merely paused with her spatula half raised, seemingly staring into space, before giving a small shrug and continuing with her cooking.

"Breakfast's ready!" she hollered, making Lance cringe. Why did she insist on doing that even when they were both in the room? Probably just habit; when you've had six children and a husband, someone was nearly always out of ear shot at the important moments. And God help you if you didn't get there on time.

"Awesome!" Michael cheered, digging into his bacon. "Ma always makes the best pig."

Lance laughed and nodded, knowing he couldn't disagree. 'Mum Cooking' was always the best; there was no denying it. 

"So where you boys going today?" the elderly lady asked, sitting down with a plate of her own. "Anywhere special in mind?"

"Just the usual; the big mall down on Ryder Street," Lance answered. "Reckon we'll be taking the train though. Car been making weird noises on me lately."

"Well, now, you be careful on public transport." His mother pointed a fork at him, a piece of bacon hanging precariously from its end. "There's all sorts of weirdo's out there and I don't want my boys mixing with the wrong crowd."

"It's ok, Ma, we can handle ourselves," Michael said through mouthfuls of egg sandwich.

"I bet you could, but it's your big brother here that I'm worried about. He's a right handful when he wants to be; never learned to control that temper of his."

"Ma!" Lance interjected. "Geez, I was never that bad. Well, I never killed no one anyway."

"You just watch yourself out there. Come back in one piece, okay, Clancy? Promise your Ma that."

"I promise!" Lance replied, rolling his eyes. "And for the last time; I prefer 'Lance'. Everyone calls me that Ma -"

"I'll damn well call you the name God gave you," his mother boomed. "Smart mouthing me... I brought you into this world, boy!"

"And I'm rightfully grateful," Lance smiled sweetly.

"Quit talkin' and eat!" Michael said forcefully; his own plate almost empty. "We'll be late."

"Hey, it's Saturday," Lance chuckled. "Give me a break."

-----

"10:07"

Lance looked at his watch and sighed. They'd been out for nearly an hour and a half, and Michael was showing no signs of boredom. Though he'd been pretty good with what he wanted, he still insisted on going into nearly every store they came across. And Lance had purposely avoided the DVD store until now, so the worst may have been yet to come.

"Sure you haven't seen enough yet?" He asked his smaller brother, who was walking beside him with wonder in his eyes.

"You kidding? I could be here all day!" came the cheery reply.

'Great,' was the only word that went through Lance's mind.

In their shopping bag currently resided a small assortment of relatively inexpensive but interesting purchases. New shoes. A second hand Playstation game. An amusing T-Shirt with the words "I Hear Voices, And They Don't Like You" on it. Quite reasonable, considering the desires a usual thirteen year old might have.

"Well, we can't take forever. I got things to do back home. Ma still can't do most of the cleaning, you know."

"Alright. Then can we go to the DVD store?"

'Damn,' Lance thought. 'So close. Should have known better then to think I could slip it past him though.'

"C'mon, bro. Please? We'll even get something _you_ want!"

"Whoa, the generosity," Lance mused. "Fine, let's go."

They headed through the mall, observing the many stores and the busy shoppers inside them as they went. There were so many rich people around; far more then when Lance was Mike's age. Teenage girls strutting around in designer clothing, skirts or tops that might cost over two hundred dollars each... and those were the cheap ones!

Lance's family hadn't exactly been poor, but they certainly weren't as well off as some. It made him kind of ill to see money thrown around so easily when he'd been brought up to appreciate it. Special occasions, like today, were an extremely rare occurrence, so he was happy to indulge Michael while it lasted.

"Come on, why're we goin' so slow?" Michael cried, tugging his brother's hand energetically.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," Lance said, following along somewhat hesitantly. He could just feel the budget breaker getting closer by the second.

Ahead of them, two mall cops were leaning against a wall, talking softly. Lance immediately felt uncomfortable.

It wasn't that he didn't like cops. He'd never stolen anything in his life, and tried to avoid most illegal activities. There'd been very little contact between him and the law. He'd never been arrested or charged or even abused by police in any form. But sometimes it doesn't take words to convey how someone feels towards another person. For Lance, it was the look they gave him every time he walked by.

That slightly suspicious, untrusting look through half-narrowed eyes. He'd seen it on numerous occasions, out of the corner of his eye; the look, the quiet whispers, the hands travelling casually towards the belt. As harmless as it may appear to them, it was both insulting and violating for Lance. To be thrown together in an all too common stereotype, to sense a subconscious prejudice emanating from those around him... it was an unpleasant sensation. And not one he could easily ignore.

Unfortunately, finding a way to deal with these feelings turned out to be a difficult task. His usual source of solace - the church and its ever friendly clergy - all seemed unclear on how to handle such things. An eye for an eye? Turn the other cheek? Do unto others how you wish them to do unto you? His faith in religion was strong, but sometimes...

A crackle of static snapped Lance out of his thoughts. They were walking by the police. But they weren't looking at him.

"... _advised that the suspect may have entered mall vicinity,_" the cop's walkie talkie's crackled. "_Reported to have fled the scene between eight and nine o'clock this morning. Description soon to follow. May have accomplices._"

"Received," one of them said, pushing a button on the side of the radio. "We'll keep an eye out."

Lance ushered Michael quickly along, suddenly a lot more eager to get to the DVD store. Again, it was only out of the corner of his eye that he saw the two police glance up and give him the look. _That_ look. Lance ground his teeth and kept walking.

"Come on, Mike," he said softly. "Let's hurry up and get you some movies so we can get outta of here."

Michael looked up to protest, but something in his brother's features seemed to make him change his mind.

"Sure, bro, whatever you say."

Lance gripped the hand of his kind-hearted sibling tighter and headed for the DVD store.

-

"Sweet!" Mike cried, clutching the DVD tightly in his hands. "_Perfect Blue_! I've been wanting to see this for ages."

"You sure that's not too old for you?" Lance asked suspiciously. The clerk at the counter had raised an eyebrow when Michael had paid for it, so he was a little doubtful of the cartoons content. He couldn't understand his kid brother's obsession with these weird animations at all.

"Yeah, fine, bro. Nothing I ain't seen before," Mike grinned. "It's all this weird head-trip stuff and shit. Really -"

"Hey!" Lance said, interrupting his brother mid-sentence with a swift smack up the side of his head. "What'd I tell you about using language like that? You wanna put our Ma in an early grave? Cause that's where she'll be going if she hears that coming out of your mouth."

"Why?" Michael asked indignantly. "You use it all the time. I heard you the other day when you nearly dropped a butter knife on your foot."

Lance scowled, annoyed at being caught out. The kid had always been swift with the comebacks. He hoped it didn't turn into a frequent habit.

"Yeah... well... that's cause I'm twice your age," he mumbled. "I earned the right to say things like that once in awhile. And I made sure Ma wasn't around when I said it."

"Riiighhttt, bro," Mike smiled cheekily. "Whatever you say."

Lance 'hmphed', and fished around his the bag for his own DVD. _Fight Club_. Nice. He'd been meaning to see it ever since high school, but had never gotten around to it. It was somewhat of a cult movie on the internet.

"Right, guess that means we can get outta here then," he said, putting a hand on his brother's shoulder.

"Yeah, no prob. One second..." Mike had been ripping off the plastic from the DVD's cover. He always wanted to check inside and look at the discs, as if he was worried that they wouldn't be there. "Just gotta put this in the bin."

Michael ran over to a garbage bin and made to put the plastic wrapping inside. Then he froze, staring with his eyes always bulging out of his head. Lance took a step towards him, afraid that he'd seen a syringe or something of the like.

"Mike? What's -"

"Holy shit!" his younger brother cried. "Check this out."

He dipped his hand into the bin, and Lance immediately dived forward.

"What the hell're you doing? Get your hand out..." he froze when he saw what Mike had found.

"Goddam! It's Platinum too!" the boy cried in excitement, holding up the shiny American Express card. "Who'd drop somethin' like this?!"

Lance snatched the card out of Mike's hand and looked at it. It was in perfect shape; not bent or scratched. He squinted to read the small, raised-print letters on the front.

"R. Bentley," he said aloud. The owner of the card. Mike was quite right; who on earth would throw this out? It could mean financial ruin in the wrong hands.

"What'll we do with it?" Michael grinned eagerly. "Can we use it?"

"Fu... Hell no!" Lance spluttered. "You know how much trouble this thing could get us in? We gotta get rid of it before -"

"Freeze!" The cry echoed throughout the whole shopping centre, making casual consumers stop in surprise. Lance's heart immediately jumped into his throat, and he felt cold sweat on his forehead.

Shit. This was not good. In fact, it was the worst. Worst timing. Worst situation. He had no idea what to do next.

"Hands above your head, and turn around real slow."

("Bro, bro there's two of them,") Michael whispered. ("What'll we -")

("Shut up,") Lance hissed. ("Just do what they say. Follow me.")

Slowly putting his hands up, gripping the card tightly in his left, Lance began to turn around. Michael, already facing those who gave the order, raised his arms in a similar fashion.

"That's good. Nice and easy," one of the mall cops said as Lance faced him. It was the two he'd seen earlier talking on the radio. Both had those nasty electro-shock stun pistols, raised and pointed menacingly. The one addressing him had a ridiculous handlebar moustache; probably thought it made him look tough.

"Listen," Lance said, "this ain't how it looks. My kid brother here just -"

"Pulled a Platinum American Express out of the garbage," Mou-Cop said. "Yeah, we saw. It's exactly how it looks."

The second cop, wearing a cap so low over his head that it almost hid his eyes from view, clicked on his radio and brought it up to his mouth.

"Centre management, this is security. We have captured and detained two possible suspects in the credit card theft. Female described is not with them; assumed to be accomplices."

"Whoa, what?" Lance cried. "What the hell is this? We just _found_ the card; you said you saw us!"

"Yeah," Mou-Cop smirked. "We saw you pull it out of the trash. Now, call me crazy, but the chances of just 'finding' an itty bitty thing like that... not too likely. My guess is that your partner in crime, wherever she is, nabbed what she wanted from it and left the rest to you."

"_What partner in crime?_" Lance bellowed, clenching his hands into fists. "I have no idea what you're talking about!"

"Sir, if you don't calm down we're going to have to take more drastic actions," Cap-Cop said smoothly. He had the electro-pistol pointed at Lance's chest.

"Bro...?"

Lance looked down and saw Michael gazing up at him with teary eyes. He looked terrified. It made Lance furious, but brought the reality of the situation to light as well.

He wasn't alone here. Any danger he got himself into, Michael would be a part of as well. He'd have to go along with it, if only for his brother's safety. It was, after all, just a big misunderstanding. They just had to explain their situation to someone who could listen. Or at least... someone who _would_ listen.

"Sir, we're going to move forward and place you in restraints now. Any sudden movements will be viewed as a threat, and we will act accordingly."

Lance watched the two uniformed men begin to creep forward. Mou-Cop pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket and waggled them in plain view.

"You got it all wrong," Lance said through gritted teeth. "You're nothing but mall-cops, not vigilantes. You'll get you sacked after this; I'll damn well make sure of it."

"That's nice, Sweetheart," Mou-Cop taunted. "Just stay where you are, and no one'll get hurt."

The cop moved behind him and clicked one of the cuffs around his wrist. Then he gave the arm a sharp twist, almost jamming it up into the high part of Lance's back.

"Ow, fuck man!" he protested. "Take it easy."

All the built up rage inside Lance was coming to the surface. All his annoyance at the silent discrimination, all the poor treatment he'd ever received under the guise of some weak excuse, when all it really came down to was the colour of his skin. If it had been some dumpy, spectacle wearing family man who'd found that card, there would have been no questions asked. Only 'cause he was black. Only 'cause his brother was too. These low life mall-cops were nothing but racists, and at that moment he would have given anything to spin around and slug Mou-Cop so hard he'd be picking bone fragments out of his knuckles for a month.

But Michael's whimpers were a constant reminder: that was not something he could do. Assault on a police officer - even if said officer was a two bit rent-a-cop - was a hundred times worse then suspected collaboration in what sounded like a petty theft. He couldn't afford to go to jail. He couldn't afford a fine or community service. He had a sick mother at home to care for, and a thirteen year old brother who had enough on his plate with the task of growing up as it is. He had to remain calm; there was no second choice.

Mou-Cop pulled Lance's other arm down and placed the second cuff around it. Then there was a telltale 'zchtt' of them being tightened securely around his wrists. He was locked in. No escape now. Nothing to do but go along for their ride.

"Alright, fine. Take me to the station," he growled. "I'll explain it to them there. Didn't expect nothing better from punk ass wannabe's anyway."

"Sir, if you have any concern for your future at all you'll do yourself a favour and shut the hell up," Mou-Cop said from behind him. Cap-Cop moved forward to grab Michael's arms. The boy flinched away.

"Leave him alone," Lance said, moving in front of his brother. "He's just a kid; he doesn't even know what's going on."

"Sorry, Sir, but he was witnessed at the crime scene. He needs to come with us."

"No, he doesn't," Lance said, glaring at Cap-Cop with the blackest look he could muster. "We got a sick mother at home, and if she hears that we've both wound up in jail, the shock could kill her. You really want that on your conscience, Badge Boy?"

Cap-Cop, obviously the more professional of the two, seemed to pause for a second and stare blankly from under his hat. Lance could see him mulling it over.

"Fine. I'll take the boy home and issue him with a warning. But you'll have to come to the station with no further resistance. That clear?"

"As crystal," Lance mumbled.

"Superb," Mou-Cop sneered. He spun Lance around and began to push him towards the mall exit, reaching for the radio as he did. "This is Mall Security, Staff Number 403. Have suspect restrained and proceeding to station for further enquiry. Partner has requested that he escort juvenile suspect to place of residence. Backup security will be required during the period of our absence."

"_Message received. Standby security is on their way. Good luck, and well done,_" the radio crackled in response.

"Bro! Bro, don't leave me!" Michael's voice echoed down the mall. Lance tried to look over his shoulder, but received a forceful push towards the exit again.

"Mike, you be strong, okay?" he yelled. "And look after Ma. Don't let Mr. Hat there wind her up too badly."

"Okay..." came the whimpered response. Lance wanted to turn, to give his brother one last reassuring look. But Mou-Cop was far too wrapped up in his power trip to let that happen.

"Keep walking, homeboy," he snorted. "Let's make this as pain free as possible."

-----

"How many goddam times do we have to go through this?" Lance yelled angrily. "I've told you everything I know, and you've asked me the same damn questions for nearly four hours now."

The policeman whose badge read "Harver" paced the floor in front of the interrogation table, where Lance had been sitting for so long his legs were going numb.

"I know," Harver said with faux sympathy in his voice, "and I promise you that it won't take much longer. In fact, if you just told us the where the girl has gone, you'd get out of here right away."

Lance smacked the palm of his hand against his head in frustration. He was getting nowhere fast.

When he first arrived, he'd almost expected the room to be decked out with a subtle array of morale corroding accessories: a slightly dented steel chair, the dark stain of some kind of liquid on the walls or floor. Maybe even the good cop/bad cops, already waiting with their high powered desk lamp.

But there was nothing like that. The questioning room was cold, clean and bare, except for the table, a bolted down wooden chair, and a small surveillance camera in the top corner. To the front of the room, there was a wide mirror, which he knew was two-way. They'd most likely been observing him since the moment he sat down. Watching for sweat on the forehead. Monitoring eye dilation or unconscious hand twitching. The camera was probably fitted with a microphone and speaker, so they could even measure the variances in his voice.

Well, he wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of showing any sort of fear or nervousness. They didn't scare him; he'd done nothing wrong. He just had to grit his teeth and bare it... and fight the urge to lunge over the table to strangle the pompous pacing asshole.

"Are you _sure_ you don't know anything about her?" Harver asked, coming over to the desk. "Medium size, blonde hair, blue eyes. Partial to stealing from well-off business types? Come on, something must be ringing a bell here."

"I know plenty of women like that," Lance growled. "But not around here. I only just got here two months ago, like I told you earlier."

"I see," Harver nodded. "And why was that again?"

"Because I had to look after my sick mother!" Lance bawled. "Christ, don't you pigs listen to _any_thing."

"I'd watch your mouth if I was you," Harver said sharply. "I'm not the only one liable to hear this conversation. Some people might take offence to tones like that."

He placed the palms of his hands flat on the table and glared at Lance through squinted eyes. Lance glared back, keeping his features as stony and unreadable as he could manage.

"So you don't know anything about this girl? She's not a lover, or friend, or even an acquaintance. You've never seen her. You have no idea why she stole a credit card and raked up nearly ten thousand dollars worth of purchases, and why she threw the card away. Correct?"

"Yes."

"And you especially don't know why she threw it into the very bin you were caught fishing it out of?"

"My kid brother found it! Kids have sharp eyes; they see these things."

"It's a very convenient skill, wouldn't you say?" Harver smirked.

Lance stared at him but kept his mouth closed. The cop waited for a minute, then continued.

"What about the name on the card? The innocent owner who's now ten grand further in debt? What did you have against him? Do big credit card holders 'provoke your envy'?"

"I've never met an 'R.Bentley' in my life," Lance said slowly.

Harver snorted and pushed away from the table. He began to pace again, giving the mirror a quick glance as he did.

"Alright, well I guess that's that then," Harver sighed, slapping his coat pocket. Lance could see a rectangular bulge there. "You sound sincere enough. I would apologise for such intrusive investigations... but I really couldn't care less anymore. You have to understand: we get all kinds of scum in here, day in, day out, who'll say anything just to get back out on the street so they can score the next hit. The 'I have a sick mother' routine is a common story."

"It's the truth," Lance replied. "That ain't the type of thing I'd lie about -"

"So credit card theft _would_ be something you'd lie about then?" The cop asked quickly.

"No," Lance snarled, "because I wouldn't do it in the first place."

"Heh. Have it your way. Fact of the matter is: truth or not, you're stuck here the night. Law requires we keep you in the lock up, for one day at least, just in case new evidence crops up and you're needed for further enquiries. Don't worry, we'll let you call home so that sick ol' Ma of yours doesn't worry herself."

For the first time since entering the room, Lance lost the tenuous grip he held on his temper, and slammed both fists on the table simultaneously. Harver flinched and immediately reached for his belt, even though no means of defence hung there.

"You _can't_ do that!" Lance yelled. "How the hell am I supposed to explain this to her? God knows what that rent-a-cop told her, or how much she pushed my little bro to explain. She could be on the edge enough as it is, so just how the hell do I tell her you assholes are keeping me in jail all night for a crime I got nothing to do with?"

Harver relaxed and allowed himself a smirk, confident that the tall black man wasn't going to lunge from his chair and inflict any grievous body harm. He strolled over to the heavy metal door and took hold of the handle.

"That's not my concern, bud. My job is to probe your ass till its cleaner then a nuns vocabulary, then get you into your cell before bed time. Your Ma is your business."

He pulled the handle, and the door opened with a high pitched squeal. Then he gestured for Lance to step through. Lance sat in the chair, staring daggers at the cop and showing no signs of moving.

"_Leave by your own will or by force, sir,_" a voice boomed into the room. It must have come from the mystery viewers behind the mirror. "_We have more cases to get through today so we don't have time to mess around._"

"You heard 'em," Harver grinned. Lance scowled and stood up,

"I want me some privacy for that phone call," he said as we walked through the door. He had no idea how this was all going to unfold.

-

...drrrttt...drrrrtt...dddrrtttt... click

"_Aye, this is Michael. Whatta ya want?_"

"Whatta'd I tell you about answering the phone like that? You want people to think we're white trash or something'?"

"_Oh, hey bro. Sorry, I'm still a little shook up from the morning. What the hell happened? Where are you? Did you tell 'em it wasn't us?_"

"More damn times then I can count. Think they believe me, but the pricks are keeping me locked up for the night anyway."

"_Damn, bro..._"

"Yeah. The mall cop didn't rough you up did he?"

"_Nah... actually he was ok. He talked to me in the car. Said it was just all part of the job and shit. He didn't really reckon we stole the card_."

"Well at least that's something. What'd he tell Ma?"

"_Nothin'. Didn't even come into the house. Just dropped me off on the street and said to take care of her._"

"Ha... I guess rent-a-cops ain't all that bad after all. Some at least. So is Ma ok then? What'd you say?"

"_Ah... well... she was a bit surprised when I came home alone, so I told her ya met some school friends and stuff. They gave us a lift and dropped me off, and you went with 'em for a bit. Kinda hinted at a girl being there._"

"Sly, bro. Good thinking. It'll make the whole 'staying over for the night' story a little easier to spin. Hmph... well, you better put her on then. Wish me luck?"

"_Yeah, man. All that. Oh, and how you getting home?_"

"Recon I'll walk to the train station. There's one not far from here. Catch the early one; 8:30."

"_Sweet, I'll meet ya!_"

"Alright, bro, sounds good. Now put Ma on."

"_Kay, catcha man..._"

"... ... ..."

"_Clancy, that you?_"

'Hey, Ma. Yeah, it's me."

_"What in the Lords name do you think you doing? Driving off with your ol' gangs and leaving Mike all by himself. You promised him, you know you did!_"

"It's not a gang, Ma. They're school friends. I ain't seen 'em in years; it'd be rude not to take some catch up time."

"_I'm disappointed, Clancy, don't think I ain't! You're just lucky Mike's not more upset. Least you got him a few things before abandoning him on the doorstep._"

"Look, I'm sorry, Ma. Okay? But this is important. I won't be home tonight, so you think you can manage things?"

"_Won't be home?... It's a girl, ain't it? You've met some cheap, godless street tramp. Haven't you? Haven't you??!"_

"Ma! It's not like that! Geez..."

"_Well, fine then. You just stay with them 'important school friends' of yours. But don't you be thinking I'll take you to a clinic if you catch anything!_"

"Damn, Ma. Why not twist 'em abit harder, there's still some feeling there."

_"Eh?... aah, Michael's yelling about something burning in the oven. You ain't off the hook though; there better be some damn good explaining done tomorrow. Take care, Clancy. Ma loves you._"

"I know. I will, Ma. See you tomorrow."

-click-

---

Lance hung up the phone and smiled slightly. Well, that went a lot smoother then he anticipated. Good old Mike had done some clever planning before hand, making it all the easier to tell a believable lie. Now his Ma never need know about the whole stupid ordeal.

"Done already?" The security guard asked. He'd been standing over Lance the whole time; baton held in one hand, eyes nonchalantly studying the opposite wall. Lance knew he'd been listening, even though he was attempting to look casual. Wouldn't want a vital piece of verbal evidence to slip through now, would we?

"Yeah, all done. I guess this is where you drag me off to my five star accommodation?"

"Yeah, in your dreams," the guard chuckled. He pulled Lance up by the shoulder and gave him a nudge with the baton. "Down the corridor now. No funny business. We got cam's in here."

Lance obliged. A police station was the last place you would want to start trouble. He and his escort walked though the busy desk-job section, where five officers sat diligently writing reports and guarding donuts. One even appeared to be asleep sitting in front of his computer screen. The cities tax dollars at work.

In the distance, he heard what sounded like an interrogation.

"... look, this is the third time you've been caught for purchasing illegal substances. We know you had some. Where'd you hide it?" The irritated and impatient voice of the questioner could be heard quite clearly through the stations many corridors.

"You're crazy, man. Fuckin' seein' things! I got nothing! Did you find anything on me? Anything at all?"

"Auugh... we _know_ you had it! Just tell us!"

"Crazy, man. Tight arse, just like all the rest. Think 'cause you got a badge you can treat people however you want. Nothing but an anal retentive self-server..."

The voices faded as Lance rounded a corner and began to descend some stony stairs. The soft gold light coming from the windows began to change into the cold blue of florescent tubes. Despite the warm air rising from below, he felt a chill run down his spine.

It was his first time. He'd never been into a cop shop before. Not even his occasional violent outbursts had landed him in one. He reckoned it came down to the fact that cops didn't really care about the neighbourhoods. Hell, if someone died, _then_ they'd come running. Until then, brawls between random residents - especially black ones - could be sorted out themselves. So even when he'd broken the knee cap of some punk kid who was spraying graffiti on his car, or left some wise ass with a concussion, he'd never been booked for it.

And now here he was. For a crime he hadn't even committed, he was being led down into the dark intestines of the law. The secret, hidden cells of 'the lock up', where people deemed unfit for society were kept until they could be sent to a place even worse. Prison. Lance didn't know what to expect. He'd only seen things like this in movies.

Would a cousin of Hannibal Lecter be waiting for him? ("_Hello, Clancy_") Ready to whisper his desires of eating Lance's liver with fava beans and a nice Chianti ("_Fh fh fh fh fh_")? Would there be serial killers and rapists, huddled in dark corners and mumbling to their various personalities? He didn't belong in a place like that. He was none of those things. Having to deal with people like that... not something he needed after a day like today. But, as they reached the bottom of the stairs, he realised he needn't have worried.

The holding cells looked nothing like a horror movie set. They simply lined a small hallway that ended in a big steel door. There were six in all, three on each side. At the entrance was a desk where he assumed a guard sat, although there was no one there now. Everything was plain, concrete and bare.

"Third on the left, let's go," the guard said, prodding him between the shoulder blades. Lance shuffled down the hallway. Thankfully, it appeared all the cells were empty. Perhaps he could get through this whole ordeal with nothing but his own thoughts to bother him.

The guard's key entered the lock with a loud 'click', and the steel barred door swung smoothly open.

"Inside," the officer directed, pointing with his night stick. Lance stepped into the cell and stared at his new abode. A shabby bunk bed. A toilet, next to a grimy looking sink. And a bolted down bench against the wall. All the classic décor a law breaking citizen could expect.

The door slammed home behind him, and Lance knew that his sentence was final. This was going to be his first night in jail. He'd just have to deal with it.  
He walked to the bunk beds, and sat down heavily, a cloud of dust immediately fluming up and floating around in the florescent lighting. This place obviously hadn't been cleaned in months. Water dripped in the sink, amplified by the polished concrete walls.

Lace sighed and lay back on the bed, resigning himself to his fate.

Perhaps this wasn't such a bad thing after all? He'd barely had any time to himself since his Ma got sick. Everything was go go go, all the time. If he wasn't running to the doctors or to the pharmacy with prescriptions, he was looking after Michael, taking him to school and picking him up. Cooking dinners, packing lunches, measuring medical dosages. Not to mention the all too strenuous activity of asking for work from people who clearly did not want a six foot three black man working in their businesses. 

This was the first time he'd actually slowed down. In here - in this box of stone and iron rods - he could finally sit and be alone with his thoughts. Just wallow in the recesses of his own mind while waiting for the seconds, minutes, hours of his forced confinement to end.

And he _did_ have things to think about.

Something had been bothering him for a long time now. He wasn't sure exactly when it started... perhaps after his father died, three years ago? That's the closest time he could pin-point. His father... Pa... it just hadn't been fair.

So the man hadn't always been the best father or husband. So perhaps he'd punished his children a little too hard for things that might seem paltry now, or broken a promise or two. But one person he'd never let down was God. When it came to his religion, no one was more devoted then Lance's father.

No matter how bad times got, his father always trusted that the Lord would see them through. And quite often, things did get better. Even if it took awhile. They always said grace and went to church every Sunday. No other plans were ever made for that morning; it was family time, and their time to be with God in his own home.

So why, in all Gods infinite mercy, had he deemed it necessary to remove a man as devoted to him as Lance's father was? Why had God not stopped that walkway from collapsing in the steel mill where the old man worked? Was sitting by idly and watching a trusting follower falling into a machine that could only be described as a 'mincer', really be just another case of 'working in mysterious ways'?

Lance wanted to believe it. For the past three years he'd be trying to rationalise it in his mind, trying to overcome the doubt he felt welling inside. But it was becoming harder and harder to do that.

Maybe other people were content to weep and get over it. To just lie back accept 'God's plan'. Lance was not that kind of guy. For starters, he held grudges. In his opinion, if someone deserved a reward for their efforts and instead received what seemed like a sick and twisted punishment... that was enough to question a faith. Even if you had been brought up to believe in it all your life.

But still, Lance _wanted_ to believe. He'd worked so hard to do so in the first place. After all, it wasn't until after his own experience - his own 'divine intervention' - that he'd actually accepted the religion fully. And once he did, life had felt so... full! Nothing can describe how it feels to know you have someone who will always be there, to watch you and guide you and love you unconditionally. You feel invincible, yet insubstantial when compared to such power. To lose that feeling...

Well, to tell the truth, Lance hadn't felt strongly like that in a while. He was twelve when the event occurred, with his whole life ahead of him. Now he was twenty six, had a dead parent, an ailing one, and scattered siblings who seemed to have given up on their faith long ago.

How was a man supposed to stay strong in times like this? He hated the feelings brewing inside him, bubbling up like warm tar. Surely denial could only keep them down for so long. If he didn't let them out someway, he knew something bad would happen. Would he snap, explode? Or just get a really bad ulcer.

He'd just have to wait and see, because there was no damned way he was going to a shrink. All those jerk offs did was sit on a couch and nod while writing out shopping lists on their note pads. If he wanted someone to ask him "How does that make you feel?" and "Tell me about your childhood" he would have stayed with his ex-girlfriend. Nosy bitch just did not seem to understand the concept of 'privacy'.

There were confession booths, of course. If he so wished, Lance could have walked into any church and divulged his fears and vices till his heart was content. Safe and warm inside that wooden box, a friendly, faceless voice beside him, telling him exactly what he wanted to hear. "Gods loves you". "Your sins are forgiven". "Everyone has ups and downs in their faith, it's just a matter of staying true to the one Lord and trusting that he'll guide you through it all". It wasn't that Lance didn't like priests, he was just... not comfortable with them.

When it came down to it, priests were still human. They were still prone to rash judgements and emotions based on events within their own lives. They were in no way divine; they only claimed to be acting out Gods will. How could Lance trust what they said as being what God truly wished of him? In a word, he couldn't. There was only one way to speak to God, and that was directly. Whether in prayer or through dreams, it was the only way to be sure. Though Lance couldn't rightly say he'd ever received an answer for certain, and never when he had truly needed one.

Besides the priests, Lance just didn't like the whole idea of a confessional anyway. It was false hope, a quick fix. Sure he might feel better. For about a day. Then what? Run back to the church for another hit of confidence? It was a slippery slope, the path to becoming a confession junkie. And frankly if Lance was going to become addicted to anything, it was at least going to be something that would make a night on the town a hell of a lot more fun.

Not that he'd ever tried, or even thought about, choosing that path.

In fact, he'd always felt sorry for drug addicts. Smackers, shooters, snorters and smokers... all just people who wanted to escape reality. They had nothing to believe in, and their only comforts came in powdered or liquid form. He used to pray that God would eventually find them and give them some guidance in life. But, as the years went by, Lance soon realised that God, along with the rest of society, had abandoned these wayward travellers. Left them, doomed, to sit on the side of the road until the substances coursing through their veins decided it was time for them to leave this world.

No, that wasn't the solution. There were no answers there. So what was left? His family? They were the ones he believed to be suffering, it wouldn't be right to burden them with his concerns. His mother was in no condition to be worrying about whether she failed at raising her son, and Michael was still too young. Besides, he wanted the kid to make up his own mind.

And so, laying on his dusty, tattered bunk bed in a cold cell beneath a police station, Lance realised for the first time that he really was alone in his struggles. There was no one else in his life that he trusted or wanted to confide in. And the only being that might have all the answers was the one he was pissed at. Was there any hope for him? Any at all?

It was yet another question from the seemingly endless stream, running through his head. And he knew as little about where to start as he did how to answer them.

Lance got off the bunk and began to pace his cell. If the only one he could rely on was himself, the only thing he could do was think. After all, he still had another twelve hours of solitude remaining...

----

A loud metallic clang made Lance sit bolt upright on his bunk. What the hell? He'd fallen asleep. He vaguely remembered lying on the bed and closing his eyes for concentration. Must have been more tired then he realised. Rubbing his temple, he swung his legs off the almost-to-small bed and looked to the door of his cell, the source of the awakening noise.

Two people stared back at him.

Lance blinked. One was the guard that had escorted him down here in the first place, looking tired and irritated. The second was someone new. The man stood in the middle of the room, staring down at him. He had a pleasant, almost cheerful smile on his face.

"Hi," he said, thrusting a smooth skinned hand towards Lance's face. "I'm your new roomie."

The hands on his watch read midnight.


	10. Lance's Lament – Path of Redemption

**Lance's Lament – Path of Redemption**

Lance stared at the hand thrust so enthusiastically under his nose. Its owner, the unusually cheery man that had just identified himself as Lance's new cell mate, waited patiently for acknowledgement.

"Get comfortable and don't cause a ruckus," the guard standing in the door said tiredly. "Cause I'll be busting things up if I have to come back down here."

Lance peered around the man blocking his view.

"Wait, why's he even in here? There's plenty of empty cells."

"Well, that's a polite way to make someone feel welcome," his roommate frowned, withdrawing his hand.

"Same principal as a hotel," the guard sighed. "Two separate tenants means two separate crappers to clean. We like to keep things simple around here. You're bunking so our good old house cleaner doesn't have to strain her frail heart." 

"Bitch probably dead already by the looks of this place," Lance mumbled. The cell door slammed shut, and Lance listened to the guard's footsteps fading away up the hall. He was alone with his strange new friend.

"My, they really pull out all the stops when it comes to sanitary items," the man grimaced, looking into the toilet. Lance squinted with annoyance and watched him pace the cell.

There was nothing particular about him. Average guy: brown hair, brown eyes and a face showing the first signs of age. Older then Lance anyway. Perhaps early thirties? Not well built, but not skinny either. He was wearing all black, which made Lance suspect he was a clubber who'd lost his way. Probably got into a fight or got caught handling E's. But something about the shirt... it seemed unusually formal for going-out wear. Lance felt he should recognise it, he could feel it tickling the back of his mind. Something was missing though...

"So, what you in for, pardner?" The man said in a John Wayne cowboy drawl. He had his hands clasped behind his back and was now walking slowly in circles around the cell.

"Nothing," Lance said sourly. "I didn't do it. Damn cops are nothing but screw ups."

"Aw, c'mon man, they ain't all that bad!"

"Oh yeah? What you in for then?"

His cell mate grinned and walked over to where Lance was sitting. Not quite as close as when he'd first arrived.

"Dealing," he said cheerfully. "Knew I'd get caught eventually. And bugger it all, if tonight wasn't the night. The name's Sirus, by the way. With an S, not a C."

"How nice," Lance faux smiled.

"... And you?" 

"Lance. With a C, not an S."

"Hah! Funny guy!" Sirus laughed. He moved towards the bunks, but at the sight of larger black man's face he altered his course and sat down on the toilet instead. It took a second for him to get his balance on the slippery, seat-less steel.

Lance shook his head and gazed about the room. Even if this was just a crappy cell in a rundown police station, he still felt that this new guy had intruded on his space somehow. He really wished he was alone again. When his view came back to Sirus, the man was still staring at him. 

That grin. That damned, cheerful grin. And all his teeth were so perfect and white. It made Lance uneasy, as well as irritated. Why did the guy seem so infatuated with him?

"So talk, bro. What's up?" Sirus asked.

"What the hell's it to you?"

Sirus put his hands up in a non-offensive manner. 

"Whoa, now. Nothing really. It's just that we're here, together, locked up in a cold concrete cell. It's dark outside and past the midnight hour. Romantic, don't you think?"

Lance's eyes widened slightly, and Sirus laughed at the reaction.

"Hah! No, not in that way. I'm not going to ask you to pick up the soap. I simply mean that we should talk. Take our minds off the current predicament and whatever the cops have in mind for us tomorrow." 

"I'll be fine," Lance said. "They know it was all a mistake."

"Well, ain't that lucky for you then? I'm probably screwed. Not that they actually found any of the stuff on me... but there's little other reason for three guys to be in a park at this time of night."

"Three?" Lance asked quizzingly.

"Yeah. Was er... accommodating some customers at the time. Couple of regulars."

"Yeah I bet you know all the junkies," Lance scowled.

"Well, one guy is. Real messed up dude. Actually got nicked this afternoon and then released because they lacked evidence. Dumb bastard came straight back to me, not even thinking that they might be following him. Ah well, I'm not one for grudges."

Lance, tiring of what sounded like mindless banter, swung his legs back onto the bed and stretched out. He hoped if Sirus saw his disinterest the annoying prick might shut up. No such luck.

"So that's my sob story anyway. See, I'm willing to share. I believe it's your turn now. C'mon; tell Uncle Sirus what's wrong."

Lance bared his teeth and focused firmly on the bunk above his head.

"I don't feel like talking bout it, and least of all to a deadbeat drug peddler. Just get into your bed, go to sleep, and leave me to figure things out for myself."

"Whatever you say, bud," Sirus shrugged. He got off the toilet and walked to the end of the bunk. After giving the small ladder an experimental tug, he climbed up and disappeared from view. Lance gave a soft sigh and began to relax. Seconds later, a loud 'clang' shocked his eyes open again. Darkness greeted him.

"_Lights out, ladies_," the tired voice of the night guard announced over a nearby speaker. The entire cell block had gone pitch black.

"Night, Mum!" Sirus called. "But next time, can I have a bed time story?"

"Shut up, man," Lance mumbled, rolling onto his side and trying to get comfortable.

"Alright, ease up with the tough guy routine already. Just 'cause you're having a crisis of faith, doesn't give you right to take it out on others." 

Lance blinked in the darkness. He turned to gaze upwards, towards the bunk bed he couldn't see.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he growled. In reply, Sirus gave a soft chuckle.

"I know that troubled face. I know that defensive manner. The only people that use them are those who believe they can't talk to anyone, even God. And if that's the case, it's most likely because the problem is with him."

"How the hell would you know that?"

"Because I'm in the business," Sirus said casually. Lance felt the bunk move and heard the springs above his head squeak. Sirus must have rolled over. 

"You said you were a dealer," Lance spat.

"Man cannot live on cocaine alone," Sirus replied. "He needs the money to fund it too. I have a day job, just like everyone else." 

"You a shrink?"

Sirus burst into laughter so raucous the entire bunk shook and bounced. Lance wasn't nearly as amused.

"Hell no, man! Those guys are bigger head cases then their patients. Wouldn't go near them. They do have the right idea though. They listen to people. In this world where everyone's busy trying to talk over the top of one another, sometimes having someone who listens can make all the difference."

"That's what you do?"

"That's my thing. I listen. And, if needed, I dispense advice. Without even charging two hundred bucks an hour!"

Lance lay on his bunk, silent. What was Sirus doing? Just making idol chit chat? Or still taking abnormally persistent measures to ensure Lance thought him trustworthy enough to confide in. Why was he so interested? But then again, why was Lance so hesitant?

He wanted to talk about it. More then anything. Only a few hours ago he'd been dismal about that fact that he had no one to do so with. Now suddenly there was a strange, possibly chemically unbalanced man, almost begging Lance to tell him all his secrets. Even claiming that listening was his profession! How was he supposed to take this?

"Alright, say I talk," Lance began slowly. "And you listen. What then? You gonna spew the usual self-help sermons and reassurance crap?"

"Hey, I can't guarantee I'll be helpful in any way," Sirus mused. "More then likely I'll agree that you're screwed! But at least you'll have gotten it off your chest."

Lance allowed himself a small smile. Ok, so maybe the guy wasn't all that bad. For a drug dealer, he actually seemed pretty down to earth and honest. And it's not like Lance would ever see him again; not in a city this big. What the hell. There was little chance it'd make things any worse. He was already in a cell, after all.

"Fine." 

"Good show, by Jove!" Sirus whooped in a pompous English accent. "Knew you'd come around, old sport." 

"Maybe you should shut up, before I change my mind," Lance growled. He closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. Now or never. "You were right."

"Eh?" Sirus questioned.

"You were right. Me and God... we got issues at the moment. Seems to me he's been doing a bit more taketh-ing then giveth-ing these days."

"Let me guess: family?" 

"Yeah..." Lance sighed. "Pa got minced and Ma's had a heart attack."

"Doesn't seem fair, ay?" 

Lance raised an eyebrow, then shook his head. Was this guy going to be agreeable all through the story?

"No, it doesn't," he said flatly, hoping his bunkmate would detect the note of annoyance in his voice. "And to put it bluntly: I'm pissed off. I dunno what I believe anymore. I dunno what I want to believe. Everything's all... messed up in my head."

"Has it always been like that?"

"No... it was clear once... back when things were simple."

"And that was...?"

"Back when I first believed, I guess," Lance shrugged. "Back when I was twelve."

--- 

It's not like I was always careless on roads. Kids are kids, you know? They get distracted.

It was Sunday, a few hours after church. Ma and Pa had just brought us back home, all full of love and singing God's praise. I was still annoyed at being one of the only kids in school who didn't get to sleep in on the weekend. _Their_ parents let them go to afternoon masses.

"Isn't it wonderful, babies? Being in that church with all them loving people. Don't it just make you feel good to be alive?" Ma would go on about stuff like that from her spot at the stove. She always liked to make a nice greasy after-sermon lunch.

And my brothers and sisters would always agree. I reckon they were just worried about missing out on bacon. I wasn't so easily bribed.

I respected our religion, sure. I understood that it was an important part of my parent's life, and shoulda been for me too. But I was getting older. Twelve is a crazy age for a kid. Starting puberty, noticing girls, and finally getting to wear clothes _you_ wanna wear. It's also when you start questioning things. _Why _should I do this? _Why_ should I believe that? What's the reason? What's the purpose? Are any of my current opinions _really_ my opinions, or just other peoples that I've adopted?  
And that's the way it had been for me with church. I listened to all the stuff the priest guy read out to us. Stories about miracles, and angels, and life changing events. God would actually talk to people, according to the Bible. He was like a real person, only... well, magic really.

But if all that was true, how come _I'd_ never seen anything like that? A kid's imagination can only go so far. One day, we need real evidence of the things we're brought up to believe in. We want to see it, or hear it, or feel it. I'd never seen angels. Never heard a big voice coming from the clouds or had a bush burst into flames before me. Not without my help, anyway...

"I'm goin' for a walk. Save me a sandwich."

"What?? No you ain't! You've got chores to do! Get your ass -"

I closed the door before Ma had a chance to finish. That day, I wasn't really in the mood for anything. Just wanted to get out and walk. Mainly I was worried about how to go about things; if I told Ma or Pa I was having doubts with our religion, how would they react? Ma I wasn't too worried about, but Pa... when he got worked up, he tended to get a bit on the physical side. I liked to avoid that if I could. We all did.

So I walked. Into the city, down the main streets. Aimlessly wandering while thinking on things way to heavy for the average twelve year old. Why hadn't I seen things like the people in the Bible did? How much of that stuff was actually true? What was the point in me believing in a religion anyway? My head was buzzing with thoughts like this when I started to cross the road.

I didn't hear the truck blast its horn. I didn't hear the people shout out for me to stop. I was lost in my own little world. Only the high pitched squeal of the compression brakes snapped me back to reality. And by that time, it was too late. Or so I reckoned.

I remember it all real clearly. It was like... everything slowed down. As corny as that sounds. The giant, metal grill, bearing down on me. Blue smoke churning up from the tires as the driver desperately tried to make his rig come to a stop. I could see his face, turned to one side, eyes squeezed shut. He'd already given up hope. My gaze was fixed on the headlights; those lightless bulbs, glaring at me like the dead eyes of a hungry beast. And even though it must have been only a matter of seconds, so many thoughts went through my mind. 

The two women - the ones that had yelled out to me - on the other side of the street. Their mouths were open and they were pointing at me. I remember thinking 'Yeah, pointing. That's gonna save me'. I could see all the cars parked on the side of the road. Just out of reach. I knew I'd have no time to dive towards them. And thoughts on the truck itself. What was it doing on this road anyway? Rigs of that size never travelled this way to get into the city. But the most frightening thing to cross my mind was to do with my original dilemma.

'Oh, Christ. What's going to happen to me? I'm about to die... and I don't even know if I should pray! I'm gonna die... and I have no God! I'm gonna die... where the _hell_ am I going to go?'

And then it hit me. Not the truck. Something else. Something pushed me so damned hard it lifted me clear off my feet. One minute I was standing, staring at my fate, the next I was flying across the road and smashing into the side of a parked car. The truck missed my legs by inches.

I couldn't work out what happened. I just kinda... lay there, against the car, covered in shattered glass from the window and aching from the impact. The entire drivers side door was bent inwards. It'd knocked the wind outta me.

The truck pulled up a couple of metres down the street, and the driver jumped out from his cab. He was panting heavily, and looked like he was about to faint. Even when he saw me he didn't seem to believe it. He kept looking under his wheels, then back at me, then to the truck again.

"Bloody hell... are you alright, kid?" he gaped. "Thought you were a goner!" 

The two women came over too, peeking around the car as if they were scared to come near me.

"You... you ok, love?" the older one asked.

I rubbed my head and looked groggily up at them. I felt like I was awakening from a dream; dizzy and confused.

"Yeah, I think I'm ok," I said slowly. "What... what the hell hit me?"

The women looked at each other, confused, then looked back at me.

"Nothing, love. You did the most spectacular leap I've ever seen. There was no one else near you."

I looked at the truck driver, questioning, almost pleading for an explanation. He just kept on gaping, mouth open and closing like a drowning fish, and shook his head.

"I didn't see no one, mate. It was just you, on the road... then you were gone. There was no one else there." 

_Not a damned soul._

---

"I guess that's when I made up my mind," Lance shrugged in the dark. "There'd been no one on that road besides me. But _something_ had pushed me. It was as real as the bruise on my side afterwards. That was my proof. My sign. God existed, and he was watching me. Lookin' out for me. That's when I believed."

"Whoa, man," he heard Sirus breathe. "That's heavy shit. So stuff like that actually happens? Real live miracles? Awesome..." 

"Yeah, well, that was a long time ago. There's been a lot happen since then that's made me question its plausibility. I mean, why save me, a punk kid who didn't even want to go to church, and let my Pa, a true believer, get minced? _Why_? What the hell kind of justice is that?"

Lance lashed out his arm and punched the wall, making a resounding thud in the cell. The bunk wobbled and squeaked in response.

"How is that a display of God's love...?"

Sirus was silent. Lance waited, lying in the suffocating blackness. He'd hoped that talking about it would make him feel better, but somehow it hadn't changed anything. Now he just felt like he'd given himself more reason to hate. He shook his head angrily and gave the above bed a poke with his finger.

"Well? You were the one that wanted me to 'open up'. Where's the know-all opinion?"

"I'm thinking it through," Sirus replied.

"Thinking what through?"

"My answer. Got to be careful with your type; don't want to say the wrong thing."

"What's _that_ sposed to mean," Lance said menacingly.

"See? That's my point. No good me sharing my thoughts if all you're going to do is come up and strangle me for it."

Lance half-smiled, half-grimaced. Amazing the impression one can give in such a short time.

"Alright. No violence, I swear. Just tell me what you think."

Sirus rolled to the edge of the bunk, and suddenly Lance could make out the silhouette of his head in the gloom.

"You _really_ want to hear it?"

"Yeah," Lance growled, "and within the next two minutes would be preferable."

"Alright. Well, let me start off by saying; I was right. You're fucked." 

Lance raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

"You're fucked, man. You're faith is all but gone. You don't _want_ to believe anymore. You can ponder and procrastinate till the milkman comes home, but you'll never going to get the answer you want. You've already made up your mind."

Was that true? Was Lance just denying what he already knew all this time?

"Short of another miracle, there's no chance you salvaging anything from this wreck. Might as well just pack up and leave. You're done. But hey, that's not a bad thing..."

Lance made a face. 

"Not a bad thing. How the hell is that not a bad thing?! A person is brought up to believe something all his life, and you think just dumping the lot of it is 'not a bad thing'? What the hell is wrong with you??"

"I'm just saying: sometimes change is good. I know it was for me."

"Oh yeah? What changed for you? You stopped buying and decided to deal instead?"

"Ouch, man. Twist that syringe," Sirus said with faux hurt. "No, I'm talking about _my_ crisis in faith. You and me: we're not so different, you know." 

"Don't even _think_ about putting me in the same league as you," Lance spat.

"I meant in personal issues. See, I had a similar experience. Granted at a younger age then you are... but it was no less troublesome considering the nature of my job. It's kind of a requirement for me to be unwavering in my beliefs."

"Ah huh. So what'd you do?"

Lance saw the silhouette of Sirus head tilt in a shrug.

"I got over it."

"... Got over it?"

"Yeah. I just quit trying so hard. I changed my views. Look, man, have you ever thought that perhaps it's ok to question things? I mean, the book was written two thousand years ago! Ideals have changed since then. The Bible's full of loop holes and contradictions; even the 'true' believers don't know what parts are for real. Their just sheep, going along with the crowd. Why _not_ take advantage of it?"

Lance couldn't believe what he was hearing. It was possibly the single most offensive thing anyone had ever said to him. The words to express such feelings escaped him, so Sirus kept going.

"The Bible says all you have to do is pray for forgiveness and God will forgive. Well, if that's the case, why should we go through life worrying about all that good Christian crap when we can just save it all for the last minute? I don't know if there's a God, I don't know if there's a higher being of any kind. But I figure, if I beg for forgiveness at the last minute; hey, I'm covered! And I'm not alone in that thinking." 

His cell mate's voice was low now, and had the hint of something sinister.

"There're other people out there who feel the same. Disillusioned. Alone. And there are groups. Places you can go for support. Think of it as a small... community, I guess." 

Lance's jaws were locked together so tight it felt like his teeth were going to crack. The veins in his neck bulged. Fists opened and closed.

"Look, from what I've heard, you're a smart man. A caring man. You're family isn't going to benefit from you're indecision. They need you to be strong. We can offer you that. We can answer those questions for you. Trust me: we can help you." 

Lance snapped.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" he bellowed, slamming his fists hard on the bed and sitting up. Sirus' silhouette disappeared in an instant. "You said you're job was to listen. Not tell me to give it all up and join some... some cult! You're trying to _recruit me_!" 

"It's not like that. Jesus, man, calm down." Sirus didn't sound afraid, but he certainly wasn't as confident.

"Shut the hell up!" Lance yelled. "I don't want to hear another goddam word come outta your mouth."

"Fine, whatever you say," Sirus muttered. "You were looking for help, and I told you a solution. It's what helped me. And it's helped countless others. If you want to remain ignorant and tortured; that's totally your choice. Though I don't know why any sane person would willingly do that to themselves -"

"_No! _Don't even try to back out of it now. How could you talk to me about somethin' like this? I may have issues with God at the moment, but I'd never betray him like that. You make me sick. I'm_ nothing _like you."

The bunk squeaked as Sirus rolled over, but he didn't say anything more. At least he knew when to choose silence over pushing a point. Lance ground his teeth in the dark, seething, trying to hold back his emotions.

How could someone be like that? How could Sirus use Lance's obvious emotional vulnerability to his advantage? He never cared about Lance's problems; he just saw it as opportunity to snag another follower. There was no doubt now that he was part of another less accepted religion. Why had he been so quick to trust a total stranger in the first place? Stupid!

He'd confided in Sirus in hope of receiving some insight. Instead, he'd been confronted with something worse then lack of faith: abuse of it! To think there were other people out there like that. People who'd _willingly_ chosen that path. He'd always known it, but to actually meet one... that was a whole new ball game. To have such sheer disrespect of a religion was unspeakable! If Lance hadn't been sworn against violence earlier, he would have come up from his bunk and shown that slimy zealot what he thought of him.

But even as the thought ran through his mind, he realised he didn't have the will for that. In fact, his initial anger was already starting to fade. Instead, now he was beginning to feel a strange wave of relief, and for some reason, his heart didn't feel as heavy. It was confusing. Lance lay on his back, thinking, staring in the dark. Why _did_ he suddenly felt better? Only moments ago he'd been ready to kill his cell mate. Then it dawned on him.

He'd fought back. He'd defended his faith. Perhaps his belief wasn't as bad as he first thought? If he still reacted like this when someone bad mouthed it, maybe... there was still hope? Perhaps this had been the test he'd been looking for?

Lance let a small smile creep across his face. Yeah... it could be viewed that way. A real life "Devil's Temptation". He'd been caught in a moment of doubt, vulnerable and helpless. Crying out for a solution. And he'd been offered one... only it came from the 'dark side', so to speak. All he had to do was accept it, and all his problems would have been solved.

Yet, even with those tempting rewards - acceptance, understanding, answers, support - he'd still chosen the light. Even after all his doubt, now he knew for sure that that was a path _he_ would never be willing to follow. Maybe he could get through this after all.

"Feels good, don't it?" he heard a soft chuckle above his head. Lance promptly let loose a fist and gave the mattress a hefty smack.

"I said shut up," he growled. Even if he had inadvertently helped Lance, there was no reason to love the Devil. He heard Sirus groan in the dark, and smiled to himself. Yes, there was hope yet. He put his hands behind his head and stretched, getting comfortable on his bunk.

He might actually sleep well tonight.

-----

Lance raised his arm, squinting in the bright morning sunlight. Free again and back on the streets! Cars buzzed by, early morning commuters pretended they were going somewhere important. It may have sounded melodramatic, but _boy_, was it good to be out!

"How was it, bro?" Michael's eager face gazed up at him. "Did they beat ya? Huh? Did you get jumped in the showers? Did they make you play hide the salami?" 

"Jesus!" Lance replied, smacking his sibling up the side of the head. "Where do you learn these things? I swear I'm gonna cut back on your TV allowance!"

They walked down the street towards the train station; the cop shop far behind them now. Lance was more then happy to see it go.

"Aww, c'mon! It's my big bro's first night in prison. I wanted at least something interesting to happen to ya!"

"Well," Lance said thoughtfully, "I did share my cell with one guy. Real weirdo."

"Awesome! Did he kill someone?" 

"Nah... just another deadbeat drug dealer."

Even thinking about Sirus made Lance's skin crawl. But at least he was free of him now. The guard had come down early, looking tired and over used. He'd opened the door with a grunt, and gestured for them to get out.

"Oh, smell that sweet air!" Sirus had commented, leaping off his bunk and skipping through the door. Lance followed, watching him with a look of distaste.

Upstairs in the offices, Harver had been waiting for them. He shook Lance's hand, but only glared at Sirus.

"You're free to go, I'd say. We had a run through the mall security video; looks like your kid brother really did just find the card. We're letting you off with a slap on the wrist. No criminal record. Just stay out of trouble." 

"I should damn well think so," Lance snorted half-heartedly.

"What about me?" Sirus chirped up. "Where's my slap? Can I have it in a place of my choosing?" 

"You've got further questioning," Harver scowled. "Like where the hell you threw that stash of yours. We know you didn't get a chance to swallow it this time. Get him outta here." 

The guard started dragging Sirus down the hallway, despite his struggling protests.

"Goodbye, Lance! Honey! I'll never forget our time together! In fact, I think I'll be seeing you again." He'd given a wicked smile, showing those white, white teeth. "Real soon."

Lance shuddered. What a goddamn freak.

"You right there, bro?" Michael asked, mild concern in his voice. "You sure they didn't do things to you in there?"

"Shut up. Damn kids."

Lance quickened the pace. It was already 8:25. These trains were well known for never running on time, and he didn't fancy hanging around this neighbourhood for another few hours. He'd had his fill of nutjobs for awhile.

"You know Ma's gonna kick your ass when you get home. She actually thinks you and some friends picked up hookers or something. I tried to tell her otherwise. Honest, bro!"

Lance smiled. For some reason even the thought of his Ma's deadly 'Frypan Fist' didn't worry him today. After his revelation last night, everything else just felt like it was going to fall into place. He'd avoided a criminal record, resisted temptation, and pulled through a series of family traumas. What more could life throw at him? Now, tasks like finding a job just seemed trivial. He knew that, given a little more time, he'd be able to handle whatever else came his way. 

Things were on the mend.

"I'm just surprised Ma let you take the early train by yourself," Lance mused. It did seem rather unlike her. He looked down and saw Michael grinning cheekily. "Awww... don't tell me -"

"Yeah, I did," Michael beamed triumphantly. "I said I was going to the skate park. Long as we get back before lunch I don't think she'll worry."

"You shouldn't lie to her so much. If she finds out you caught the train by yourself... my ass whooping won't even come close to the one you'll get."

"Huh. You're one to talk, Mistah Jailbait."

Lance chuckled, but soon lost his good humour when his saw the entrance to the subway before them. Train stations were not his favourite places. Everyone always wanted to be first ones on the train, so they crammed against each other like sardines, right up to that yellow line. It wasn't enough that they were all trapped underground surrounded by concrete; they had to make Lance feel like there was no escape as well.

Well, there was nothing for it. Unless he wanted to pay forty bucks for a cab, or take three different buses, this was the only way. Michael started the descent first, leading his less then eager brother by the arm.

"C'mon, hurry up! We'll miss it."

It was getting crowded already, Lance saw, which was strange for a Sunday. He guessed everyone was hoping to get to the beach first before the midday rush. They stood at the edge of the crowd, trying to find an opening among the mass of bodies.

"Aw, man! We won't even get a seat if we're all the way back here! We'll be standing up the whole way," Michael said sulkily.

"Screw that," Lance snorted. "Bout time we got a break." 

Lance was at least a foot taller then majority of the commuters there, and he planned to take advantage of that. He grabbed Michael by the shoulders and placed the smaller boy behind him. Michael obediently grabbed the back of his brother's shirt. 

"Alright, people, make same damn room," Lance boomed. He began to push his way into the crowd. Beach goers and business types alike only resisted for a moment, once they'd glanced up and seen who was jostling them.

'That's right,' Lance thought grimly. 'Part like the red sea. Fear the black man.' 

Sometimes it paid to play the minority card, though he knew he shouldn't. Ah well, this was important. What time was it? From the amount of people on the platform, they couldn't have missed their ride. At least, he hoped not. The crackling of a distant handheld radio caught his attention.

_"It's 8:35 on this fine, fine morning. You're listening to the Breakfast Blues with me, Rokin' Rickie. We'll be back with more music after a word from our sponsors." _

Well, they were late. But so was the train apparently. Thank god for small blessings. They reached the edge of the platform and stopped on the yellow line, aware of the grumbles and glares behind them. Lance let out a sigh of relief and looked down at Michael. His brother grinned back.

"Alright! We got the good seats for sure now!" 

"Yeah." Lance agreed. "Looks like we made it. We'll be back home before Ma can warm up that frying pan."

_"I don't have anything! Why are you asking me?" _

A girl's shrill voice suddenly rose over the sound of crowd banter. People began to shuffle and look about, trying to see the source of the commotion. Lance didn't bother. He was used to girls trying to get attention. They'd have problems with a boyfriend or something and thought the whole world should know about it. Wasn't worth the time. 

_"Out of all these... anal retentive self-servers, I thought that you might actually help a guy out!" _

Lance looked up with a start. That voice he recognised. He'd heard it very recently in fact; yesterday afternoon during his journey through the police station down to the cells. He glanced around, looking for the owner of the voice. It was impossible to find anything over that sea of faces.

-ORN-OOOORRRRRRRRNNKKK-

The blaring sound of the train announcing its approach made everyone flinch.

_"I don't have any money. Please, leave me alone!" _The girl's panicked voice continued from somewhere close by.

"Man, sounds like some chick's got issues," Michael said, standing on his toes and trying to see though the crowd.

"They always do," Lance said, still half distracted. People were becoming restless; he wasn't sure if it was from the drama on the platform or because the train was nearly there. "Just ignore 'em. Nothing but -"

Something very hard smacked into his elbow, right on the joint. White hot flashes of pain shot up his arm like nothing he'd ever felt. Funny bone. _Why_ always the funny bone? He grabbed his arm and ground his teeth. 

"Haha, she got you good!" Michael laughed.

Lance looked down and saw a blonde haired girl crouched on the ground, holding the sides of her head.

"Watch it, bitch!" he said through his pain.

He knew it was harsh even as he said it, but he couldn't help himself. There was nothing funny about getting hit on the funny bone. He flexed his fingers, trying to get feeling back again among all the pins and needles. Well, it was getting better. Maybe he should see if the girl was alright? He looked back and saw she was still crouched on the concrete, face buried in her hands. Lance opened his mouth to say something.

_"Fuck you!" _she screamed suddenly, lashing out with her arms. Then she pushed her way into the crowd before Lance had a chance to stop her.

"Man," he shook his head and turned back to Michael, "there's some real crazy -"

Michael was gone. Lance looked around, confused.

"M...Mike?"

Someone screamed and the crowd let out a shared gasp. Lance followed their gazes, and his eyes came to rest on the tracks... where the prone body of Michael lay. The girl must have pushed him when she lashed out, and he'd fallen off the platform. Now, Lance could only stare in horror at his younger brother's still form, sprawled face down on the metal railings; head resting on one track, legs bent over the other. He wasn't moving... he wasn't _moving_! 

"Michael? MICHAEL!!" Lance yelled. He made to dive forward, but someone grabbed his arms. He turned his head and stared with a deadly fierceness at the man who was holding him. "Let me go! I gotta get down there!"

"You can't..." the man said, obviously distressed.

"It's too late," a teenage girl cried beside him. She was on her knees, seemingly torn between reaching past the line and staying put. "The train's coming!"

In answer to her statement, the insanely high pitched squeal of brakes being jammed on pierced everyone's ears. The train had seen them. It was trying to stop.

Lance struggled against his holders, now increased by two, heedless of their warnings. He had to save Michael! He had to save his brother! He dragged his body forward, over the yellow line, taking the three men with him. There was still time! _There was still _- 

-ORN-OOOORRRRRRRRNNKKK-

The train screamed by so close that Lance felt the cold metal brush his fingertips. The crowd recoiled in horror, gasping in despair, and he was released. Lance fell to his knees, arms hanging limply at his side, breathing heavily. Staring at the carriages fly by. Staring at the place where only seconds ago his brother had lain; now crushed under a hundred tons of steel and iron. Dead! And he couldn't do anything to stop it! 

"Gone..." Lance choked. "He's... he's gone!! Why? _WHY?! Oh god, MICHAEL! NOOOOO!" _

Not even the screeching brakes or grinding wheels could drown out the sound of Lance's lament.


End file.
